One Man Among Him
by MadameArachne
Summary: "God is dying, Dean Winchester," said Death.     This fiction takes place after 7.02, so beware of spoilers if you haven't gotten that far yet. This is also written to be a series finale.
1. Prolog

Prolog:

"God is dying, Dean Winchester," said Death slowly as he ran one boney finger around the rim of his teacup.

Dean Winchester started, looking around the pizza shop in confusion, disoriented and unsure of how he had arrived there. His brow furrowed as his eyes darted quickly up and down the rows of tables, taking in the red checkered table mats, the amber colored candles flickering in the dim restaurant light, and letting his glance fall to the glass windows behind him and the misty Chicago sunlight filtering in. Then finally, his eyes crept to Death, never quite meeting the man's gaze.

"Death," Dean said with some hesitation, remembering their last meeting and how badly it had nearly ended. Dean began an apology, feeling as though words alone could never appease Granddaddy Reaper, though he had to at least try,

"Look, I just wanted to apologize about-"

"Don't act so surprised, Dean," Death interrupted, taking a sugar packet and tipping its contents his cup. "I'm not here to talk about that. Although it was a little rude of you to _bind me_," But Death waved his hand dismissively

Dean stopped his apology, mouth slightly open, waiting. He still looked stricken, unable to hide the unease knitting his brow. He kept a respectful distance between himself and the man sitting across from him, his eyes watchful, guarded, and hard, cheeks drawn in against bone as he felt his tension mounting. Death _had_ threatened to kill him upon their last meeting, after all. Distance was healthy and most likely encouraged.

"I see you have tea there," Dean cleared his throat, hoping to divert some of Death's attention away from himself, and attempted a smile, an uneven, sloppy thing that hid nothing of his churning nerves and unease. "And what do you mean God is dying?" A tick began to pulse in Dean's cheek.

"Well, this is _your_ dream," Death pointed out, "I suppose I could drink whatever you wanted me to," Death made a slight face, as if Dean's preferred drink wasn't really his cup of tea at all.

"This is a dream?" Dean looked around the pizza shop again, not remembering having fallen asleep.

"Correct," Death sipped his drink. "Now, I presume your next question will be something along the lines of 'why here'." The dark haired man's voice was presumptuous, but Dean had learned to accept that about Death.

"I'll bite," Dean put his elbows on the table, letting himself come a little closer to the horseman, "Why here then?"

"Because, Dean, as you will recall, we once sat in this pizza shop and discussed God. And when we discussed God, I told you very plainly that God would die. Now, God is dying. It is only fitting that I tell you here."

"Cas? You mean _Cas_?" Dean said, adjusting himself on his rickety wooden seat.

"I don't mean Castiel, Dean. Castiel was never a god," Death's dark eyes widened pointedly, "I believe I've already made that clear. No, Dean, I mean the real God."

"The real God?" Dean smirked, a dark snort issuing from his nostrils. Then slowly, a grimace formed across his face, bitterness creeping up over him, and he shook his head, "You mean the God that couldn't give a crap about us?"

"You assume you know all the cards in play," Death raised his eye brows, "Typical." Death leaned away from the table and then, with two long white fingers, he slowly pushed a second cup of tea toward the Winchester boy, a cup which had not been there previously.

"Drink," His voice, no matter what he said, was always a touch imperious, and Dean picked up the cup, gave a forced smile, drank, and then set it back down.

"This is no joke, Dean," Death continued on, "In fact, God has been dying for a very long time."

"And…what would be a long time, exactly?"

"Well, even for human standards, He doesn't have long left to live, and it's been like that for longer than you could hope to comprehend. Centuries and more." Dean let this information sink in for a moment, unsure about how he felt, then asked,

"H-how long we talkin'?"

"Not long. And when he does die, you can't imagine the mess that will ensue."

"What kind of mess? The Apocalypse?" Lines creased Dean's face, and for a moment he looked older, too old, in fact, the hells he'd seen flashing across his eyes for that mere second.

That's when Death smirked, even laughed a little, but it was a cold gesture that sent a ripple up Dean's spine. He didn't like it when Death laughed, Dean decided.

"You will see in time, Dean Winchester."

"And… what exactly is that supposed to mean?" A dark shadow passed over Dean's face, his heart starting to beat quickly, unease filling his belly. But Death stood up from his chair, brushing a bit of sugar from the sleeve of his black jacket.

"I am afraid this is where we part ways for the moment," Death inclined his head a little.

"Now?" Dean felt caught, his sense of duty mingling with the reserve and trepidation he felt about Death. But he sat in his seat, not quite making eye-contact with the horseman, knowing that protesting was pointless.

Death nodded, watching Dean from down the bridge of his long nose, almost as if expecting him to say something more.

"I will return later," Death said abruptly, touching his long fingers together, staring beyond Dean into the foggy light issuing from the windows, "But I have other duties, more important duties, at present. Goodbye, Dean Winchester. Until later." Then with that, Death was gone.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, and pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking and shaking his head as he sat by the dull candlelight of the pizza shop. He looked back up as if hoping to see Death still standing there, waiting to give an answer. But there was nobody. The tightness he had felt at the sight of Death did not release at his departure, and he knew it would be a while before all the answers came to him.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.


	2. Chapter 1

"Dean!"

Sam's voice, urgent, perhaps even somewhat concerned, cut through the Chicago pizza shop. Dean felt the restaurant begin to soften, fade to black and then gray as his mind began to wake. The Winchester boy steadily grew aware of the hotel mattress beneath him and the Magic Fingers still working their potent magic against his back and shoulders. He had been relaxing for a moment and must have drifted off.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was right next to Dean now, and thus his eyes snapped open. With a groan, Dean put a hand to his forehead and blinked in the motel room light. A bare bulb flickered overhead, buzzing slightly. Water stains soaked the ceiling, and the faint stench of somebody's old cigarettes still lingered. This was not one of the nicer joints he and Sam had decided to stay at, but there wasn't much choice at the moment.

"Damn it, Sammy, you can't let me sleep for _five_ minutes?" It was more of a statement of habit than one of meaning, older brother telling off the younger, and gruffly Dean wiped the sleep from his eyes.

"Sorry," Sam said, his voice half apologetic and half concerned, "It looked like you were having a nightmare. Everything alright?" Sam was hopeful, but also resolved, knowing his brother all too well to expect any quick answers on the state of his psyche.

"Yeah, what about you?" Dean fidgeted away from Sam's questions, the dream still unanswered in his own mind, and he needed a moment to think on it himself, "You know, the whole hallucinations thing?" Dean's face we pinched as he looked up at his younger brother. Sam opened his mouth, but he couldn't seem to find words right away, so he shook his head, eyes dropping to the floor.

"Same old, same old, I guess. But at least I can tell what's real now." Sam shrugged a little. Dean licked his lips and nodded.

"Baby steps." Dean had taken to repeating the phrase.

Just then Sam's phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He looked at Dean, and then pulled it out.

"Mind if I-"Sam began, holding up the phone, but his brother cut him off.

"No. Answer it. Probably Bobby," Dean yawned. Sam put the phone to his ear.

"Hey, Bobby. Any news?"

Dean sat up slowly, disgruntled, a little stiff along his lower back despite the Magic Fingers. Almost as soon as Dean made this observation, the machine stopped, petering out feebly, and he put another quarter in. It did not start.

"The one good thing about this damned motel, and it dies! Great," Dean fumed, slapping the little box with the butt of his palm, trying in vain to jar it to life. The dream had left Dean edgy, unnerved, something about seeing Death and the new impending task looming on the horizon didn't relieve his already less than perky mood.

"Right, thanks Bobby," Sam said into the phone, then clicked it shut, "So, according to Bobby, there's been another death." Sam put the phone back into his pocket, "And get this, the body was found a mile from the last one, along the same river bank, and it was chewed."

"Bobby say what it might be?"

"No ideas yet, but he's looking."

Dean could see that Sam was circling back to the nightmare. He was walking back over to Dean, a frown pulling at his mouth, concern working on his brow.

"Look, Sammy, before you ask," Dean's voice was fair, and he held up a hand to silence Sam before he even had a chance to speak, "It was Death. Death decided to… drop in."

Sam looked as stricken as Dean had in the restaurant. His mouth opened a little, confusion in his face. Clearly, this wasn't what Sam had been expecting to hear at all. It took him a second to reply.

"What did he want?" Sam asked uncertainly, shaking his head absently, and sitting down on the bed across from his brother's.

"He came to tell me that God is dying," Dean said as plainly as he could, though the slight incredulity he felt wriggled into his voice.

"…You mean Cas?"

"Not Cas. He meant God. Like _the _God. The one who couldn't give a rat's ass about us."

"But," said Sam, trying to fit all the pieces together, "What… does that even mean?"

"Beats me. He just said it was going to be messy then split before he could give the full details."

"No kidding," Sam leaned back on the bed, arms crossed, thinking hard, "Did he say anything else? Like if we're supposed to try and save…save God?"

"Not a thing."

"Well that's helpful,"

"It is what it is, I guess," Dean scowled a little, folding his arms behind his head, "Anyway," Dean nodded to the wall of missing person's faces, maps, and thumb tacks on the other side of the room, "Let's get back to the case." Dean wasn't keen on the subject of Death and God anymore. He'd said all he needed to, wanted to. God still raised a bitter nerve with Dean, the memory of his visit to Joshua and the Garden still lingering in his mind. Now wasn't the time to dwell on those memories and grudges.

"Dean, this is kind of big," Sam raised his eyebrows, "I mean…God is dying, and we don't know-"

"Exactly, we don't know. And there's nothing we can do about that right now, Sam," Dean said, an irritated edge creeping into his voice, "So let's focus on the work we can do."

Sam still felt like pushing the issue, but let it drop. He sighed, knowing that arguing was pointless and Dean was right anyway. There wasn't much to go on, but that didn't help him detach from the problem.

"Right, so, here's what I dug up while I was out," Sam stood up and walked over to the wall, half of his mind on the present case, the other half still picking at Death and God, however fruitless an effort that would be.

"The victims were found washed up," Sam prodded a few circled locations on the map, and then marked the new location Bobby had given him with a thumbtack, "And even though the killings happened around water, Bobby still isn't convinced it's Leviathan."

"Well that's good, I guess," Dean commented, though he wasn't sure if he should or shouldn't be happy about it.

"And they were all partially eaten." Sam grimaced and Dean raised his eyebrows, kicking his legs over the side of the bed.

"Wonderful," Dean's voice was less than enthusiastic, "What about the hearts?"

"Nope. Autopsies didn't report any missing organs."

"So we can cross off werewolf."

"Looks like it," Sam scanned the headlines posted up on the wall, "Oh, and one more thing I noticed," Sam added, "The victims were all men."

"Men? This thing have any particular taste in men? You know, besides _eating_ them?"

"Young men, actually. Oldest was," Sam scanned the wall until finding the victim, "Frederick Bower, a 28 year-old can labeler."

"What about the latest guy?"

"Jeremy Parker, a 24 year old mechanic."

"Well," Dean stood up from the bed, stretching his stiff muscles, wincing a little, then picked up the keys to his beloved Impala, "How 'bout we pay Jeremy a visit."

"Works for me," said Sam.

Red clay dust blew through the small town of Ivory, North Dakota. It was a small thing, a dot easily missed on most maps, even by those looking for it. It took about forty-five minutes to walk from one side of town to the other, and the population never rose higher than a few thousand. Miles of nothing spread out around Ivory, just grass, woodlands, rivers, and lakes. The air was always slightly brisk, a cool wind usually blowing down from Canada. Today, the skies were blue, for the moment, but rain was forecasted for later that evening.

The citizens themselves were humble folks. A few horse ranches circled the town's perimeter, and the main good produced was cans. In fact, most of the workers in town worked in the can factory, though of course there were a few doctors, teachers, motel managers, a single bar and its tender, and one very unlucky, very deceased mechanic.

Sam and Dean Winchester were in the process of examining that deceased mechanic, standing in a snug morgue. The establishment was not built to hold more than a few dead at a time, and there were only a few staff on duty today, most of them disturbed and uneasy, never having dealt with a real murder case before. Needless to say, unusual deaths were not part of the Monday morning agenda in Ivory, and the town was ill-equipped for dealing with the recent string of tragedies.

Sam was still feeling slightly uncomfortable, just having received a very tight, very teary hug from Jeremy's long-time girlfriend who had been hanging around the place.

"Oh thank you! Thank you for coming!" She'd sobbed hard into Sam's shoulder as he awkwardly patted her back while giving 'help me!' glances to his snickering brother.

"Why do they always come after you?" A smirking Dean was still teasing Sam, eyeing the wet patch where the girl had soaked his fake FBI jacket (which was thankfully black to help hide the tears), "Seriously, you could get laid doing that."

Sam shrugged, "Look, let's just get back to the body."

"All I'm saying, Sammy, is that you're letting this wide open shot go. She was totally coming on to you." Dean winked.

"Body?" Sam pointed to the covered cadaver on the metal table with a finger.

"Fine, Mr. Sensitive!" Dean rolled his eyes, but walked over to the head and took the ends of the white sheet up between his thumbs and forefingers.

"You really think she was coming onto me?" Sam suddenly wondered out loud, thinking back to the whole hugging fiasco. Dean bit his bottom lip and grinned. Then he shook his head and unveiled Jeremy Parker. Or the parts of Jeremy Parker that still remained.

The man slept cold and pale, skin white where it wasn't raw and peeled back to reveal bone. His right arm and leg remained intact while the left side of his body bore deep bite marks. The teeth, from the impressions left in the skin and tissue, were large and even.

"What could leave teeth marks like that?" Sam asked, nose wrinkled, and he picked up a pair of tweezers from a tray sitting nearby. Carefully, he turned over the hanging flaps of skin in the man's arm, examining each fiber, each ripple of decaying mass. He tried hard not to inhale too deeply as he worked.

"Beats me," Dean said as he too began to examine the deep wounds, slipping on a pair of plastic gloves. While Sam worked on the arm and upper torso, Dean set to Jeremy's stomach and leg, combing over each cut and each hole.

"Hey Sammy," Dean suddenly straightened up, "Pass me your tweezers and a magnifying glass, will yah?"

"Yeah sure," Sam put the tweezers and a magnifying glass into his brother's outstretched hand. Dean held the glass up to one eye and gently plucked at a pucker of skin, a long hair embedded into it.

"While I'll be damned. Look at this."

Sam leaned toward Dean as he extended the dark thread of hair like a trophy. It was over nine inches long, thick, and had somehow managed to snake itself inside of the body. It hung like a tendril from between the tweezer points, dripping with bodily fluids.

"Think that's from the killer?" Sam asked.

"I'd bet baby on it," Dean said confidently, a proud smile riding his mouth, then caught himself, "Well, maybe not baby."

The two brothers then gingerly placed the long strand into a plastic bag and tucked it away behind Sam's coat lapel. Between the two of them, they decided that now would be a good time to question the weeping girlfriend, still presumably lingering around for them to appear in the waiting room. As predicted, she was still sitting slumped into a faded leather chair, cradling her forehead. Business in their steps, Sam and Dean took seats across from her and she looked up at their approach.

"Ma'am, uh, Kathleen was it?" Sam asked and the woman nodded.

"Did you find anything?" she asked, her words congested and nose pink.

"My partner and I need to ask you a few questions," Dean picked up where his brother left off, avoiding her question.

"I gave my account to the police," Kathleen said hoarsely, "But they didn't really think much of all of it. Or…that's what I thought, anyway. That's why I was so relieved that the FBI showed up. I guess they did believe me. I'm sorry, about that, by the way," She flushed a little, awkwardly directing the last bit toward Sam whose coat was now nearly dry, "It's been difficult."

"It's fine," Sam said, waving his had dismissively, but still sounding a touch awkward, "Would you mind going over what you told the police?"

Kathleen looked confused.

"Was Jeremy acting strangely before his death? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?" Sam continued.

"N-no! He was perfectly fine-"

"Any cold spots around the house? Flickering lights maybe?" Dean said casually.

"Not that I noticed," she said with some hesitation and looked to each of the boys as if expecting explanation, "What does that have to do with Jeremy? It's warm out. The house wouldn't have a draft."

"Just making sure we have all the details, ma'am," Sam reassured her.

"If you could walk us through that night, that'd be great," Dean transitioned swiftly.

"I thought they'd have told you?"

"Run it by us one more time," Dean said with a polite grin, "For our official records."

"Well," she said slowly, sitting up a little bit in her chair, clutching its tightly, "He came home from work, same time as usual. He said he'd paid a visit to a ranch nearby at lunch. Ms. Porter was having car trouble, he said, so he went and helped her out," Kathleen choked and raised a hand to her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes, "Th-that was just like h-him. To go out of his way to h-help another. That was the second time in a week he'd skipped l-lunch t-to help somebody out." She reached for a tissue from the Kleenex box sitting beside her and pressed it to each cheek, wiping her eyes.

"And what happened after he came home?" Sam said gently. The woman drew in a ragged breath, trying to cling to some composure, looking up at the ceiling, beyond the Winchesters.

"H-he showered up and we had dinner together. Then he said he was g-going out. To the bar to meet with his buddies. It was his weekly ritual, so I let him g-go and didn't think anything of it. Th-that was-" she was starting to crumble again, her shoulders shaking, face reddening as the tears began to roll, "Until he didn't come home."

"And what made that odd?" Dean asked. Both the woman and Sam looked at him, and he quickly added, "I mean, other than, uh, the not coming home part."

"What we mean is," Sam clarified, giving his brother a sideways glance, "Is what about that wouldn't the police believe?"

Kathleen wet her lips, her eyes dropping to the floor.

"I know they think it's some sort of animal. Dog or something," she gave the brothers a furtive glance from behind bloodshot eyes, "But I had to look at his body. To identify him," her voice cracked but she carried on, "That was no dog. It's not like Jeremy to come home late. It's not like him to get messed up in something funny. And I know something funny is going on."

"Are you saying he was kidnapped? Or lured, maybe?" Dean asked.

"Look, I didn't see what happened. But I just have this feeling. Something isn't sitting right with me, and I know the police don't go on feelings alone. But if you could try and figure this out…You can't let it slip off to a rogue animal. I know there's more than that going on." Kathleen looked at them pleadingly, and she reached out with a trembling hand and gripped Sam's arm tightly, looking at him.

"Of course. We'll let you know if we find anything," Sam said, looking down at his arm, then up at her face. He smiled weakly and she managed to smile back.

"We should probably be going," Dean said, standing up from his chair, "Thank you for your time, miss."

She let go of Sam's arm, and he quickly stood up, hoping he didn't look too eager to leave.

The pair left Kathleen, who watched them go, thanking softly.

"I agree with her," Dean said once they were outside and out of earshot, "There is no damned way that was a dog."

"Any ideas where the hair might have come from?" Sam asked his brother as they walked to the Impala, red dust kicking up off the sidewalk as they strode.

"Well, we've got the local bar and Ms. Porter's ranch. Take your pick."

"Let's hit the ranch. It'll be dark soon."

"Ranch it is."

The Impala jostled its way across the off-the-beaten-path roads. Forests and rivers cut into the land, dividing the world between open fields and dense wilderness. Against the horizon clouds were building, the rain forecasted not long off.

Sam and Dean were following a long, thin, dirt road, signs appearing every so often, urging them to continue on. Then the silhouette of a farm house and fences rose over the hillside. The ranch itself wasn't particularly large, and only three horses were out to pasture, grazing.

The Impala ground its wheels into the dust and dirt as it came to a halt just off of Ms. Porter's property. The two brothers left the car and walked up to the farmhouse's front porch. The building had seen better days, its collapsing frame and chipping paint weeping of finer years. Part of the house was covered by a blue tarp, clearly under repair. Behind the house was a stable, small, meager, but in better shape than the sagging wood and stone the Winchester's now stood upon.

"Ms. Porter?" Dean said loudly as he knocked on the door, "FBI. We need to ask you a few questions." He continued knocking for a while, but there was no response from within. Sam was already poking around surreptitiously, peeking in through a window.

"Doesn't seem like she's in-" Sam was just saying, but a voice from around the side of house cut him short.

"You boys needin' somethin'?" Ms. Porter then appeared at the base of the porch. She wore a pair of threadbare jeans, with knees worn and dusty, that tucked into a pair of equally dirty brown boots. The shirt she wore was blue, the sleeves rolled up around her elbows. Her long brown hair she let flow behind her, and her face was slightly aged, revealing a woman maybe about ten or so years older than Sam and Dean.

Something about that voice, the way Ms. Porter called to them, and the quiet kind of strength she emanated, reminded Dean of Ellen. It was a quick connection, but it sent a sudden spasm of pain through his chest. He buried the thought as quickly as it had come, but the feeling he couldn't shake quite as easily, and he found he could not meet her gaze fully. If Sam had the same thoughts, he was better at hiding them.

"Yes. Ms. Porter?" Sam responded, straightening up and continuing on, hoping she hadn't seen him peeking into her house.

"That'd be me," she confirmed, "What can I do you for?"

"This is agent Reeves, and I'm agent Smith," Dean said, and both brothers flashed their FBI badges, faces impassive, "We're here investigating the recent deaths and would like to ask you a few questions."

"Anything you can tell us would be appreciated," Sam added.

"How 'bout you two come in and we'll talk in there?" Ms. Porter suggested, and the two agreed, "Anythin' I can get you?" she offered as they stepped into her house, "And don't mind the mess. I've been having the place remodeled."

"I'm fine, thanks," Sam politely declined.

"Water if you don't mind." Dean said.

"Sure thing. Take a seat." She indicated a sofa sitting by the window Sam had been peering through. Across from the sofa were a small coffee table and two chairs, tilted slightly to face a television set tucked in the corner. Sam and Dean took the couch and waited for Ms. Porter to return from the kitchen.

The living room itself was torn up in places. The wooden floor had been scraped clean of its finish, in the process of being worked on. The walls too had been washed of their color, and blue tape lined the edges of a few windows. The room was bare, save for the couch, table, two chairs, TV, and a hanging light fixture and desk on the other side of the room. A stair case sat beside the kitchen entryway, leading up into the second floor.

When Ms. Porter returned, she was not alone. A little girl, no more than four, hugged her legs and was whispering something hurriedly. Her hair was similar rich brown to Ms. Porter's, and her large, dark eyes shied away from the two strangers sitting in her living room.

"Not now, Greta," Ms. Porter said patiently, "Go upstairs for a bit and play." The girl pouted slightly, but with a quick glance to the two fake FBI agents, she scampered away up the stairs, her sandals smacking the wood with haste.

"Your daughter?" Dean asked as Ms. Porter handed him the glass of water.

"Yes." The woman sipped her own glass of water.

"You two lived here long?" Sam picked up the inquiry, leaning forward a little and resting his elbows just above his knees.

"No, actually. We both moved here just last year. Right after the floods."

"Floods?" Dean said.

"It rained for days about a month before we both moved in. Rivers were all swollen, mud everywhere. Awful weather. But I understand you boys are here to talk about the recent murders?"

"Yes," Sam confirmed, nodding, "We understand that Jeremy Parker stopped by your ranch the same day he died."

"That he did," she gave a somber sort of nod, "Pity, too. He was a nice fellow and the last good mechanic in town."

"Was he acting strangely at all when he stopped by?" Dean asked. "Was he irrational in anyway?"

"Mmm, no. Like I said, he was a pleasant guy. Why do you ask?" She looked between Sam and Dean, a hard look settling into her gaze.

"Just routine questions," Dean said, "And did he say anything to you? Anything odd?"

"Just asked me what was wrong with the car. Then he worked on it for a bit and I went back to training my mares. I paid him when he was done and he said to give him a call back if anything else happened. That was it. He drove off. And next I hear he's dead."

"So nothing out of the ordinary?" said Sam, looking quizzical, his brow furrowed.

"Not a bit."

"Have you noticed anything around town, maybe?" Dean continued, "Cold spots? Lights flickering in the local bar? Weird noises?"

"Not that I've noticed, no." Ms. Porter was looking a bit skeptical of the two agents before her, her eyebrows reaching into her hairline. The two brothers exchanged a quick glance.

"Now, those are some odd questions," she observed, her voice a little accusatory, "Mind telling me what this is about?"

"Like I said, just routine," Dean said, but he tapped Sam lightly with his foot, masking the movement by adjusting himself in his seat and clearing his throat.

"Routine?" The woman snorted, "Oddest damned routine I've ever heard."

"I take it this sort of thing doesn't happen often," Sam said, redirecting the conversation.

"Not as far as I can tell. You boys'd be better off asking the townsfolk these sorts of questions. I can assure you, there's not much help I can give, not with questions like those." Her voice had a final sort of edge to it, as though she didn't take well to off-beat questions.

"I think that's everything we need," Dean said, grinning at Ms. Porter in fake appreciation and standing up, "Thanks for your time. Mind if we take a quick look around before we head out?"

"Not at all," Ms. Porter said, standing up too and shaking their hands, "Though mind the horses. Nile bites."

"Will do. Thanks," Sam said and the two Winchester boys saw themselves out.

"Well I guess it's the local bar next," Sam said to Dean, shaking his head as they headed around back, his eyes on a snaking river in the distance and the darkening sky.

"Did that woman, uh," Dean said, feeling strange bringing it up, "Remind you of Ellen at all?"

Sam thought for a minute, and then shook his head.

"No…Not really. Why?"

"No reason," Dean said, intending to drop the conversation before it progressed any farther. He stopped at the fence, turning his head. Beside it stood a great brown mare, her hair rippling back from her neck in a gathering wind. She bowed her head a bit, lowering it and staring at Dean with one dark eye.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean barked and Sam turned around, a few steps ahead of Dean.

"What is it?" Sam walked back over to his brother, "Find something?"

"Let me see the bag."

Sam pulled the plastic bag from beneath his jacket and handed it to his brother. Dean held it up, eyeing the long dark strand in his hand and the mare's whipping hair.

"Look familiar?"

Sam craned his head forward, squinting his eyes.

"A horse hair?"

"Looks like it. I think it might be time to give another Bobby call."

Lenny Barren was reeling in his fishing line. He was twenty years old with a soft curl of blond hair sitting on top of his head. His eyes were a watery blue color, but his hands were thick and gruff. It was his afternoon off from the can factory, and he had decided to spend it fishing.

The waders he wore kept him dry, reaching his chest. His brother teased him about how stupid he looked wearing a chest high rubber onsie, but he wore it with pride. He was a fisherman.

Nervously, Lenny looked up at the gathering storm, noting that he was still waist deep in the chilled river. He thought briefly of lightning strikes and left the slowly drifting water, careful not to trip on the river bottom getting out. The pole was wound up and rested against his shoulder, and he bent to gather up his tackle box. No fish today.

Lenny walked back along the river, through the thick trees buffeting his body like a tightly knit crowd, wandering along his newly discovered shortcut. The wind was picking up, and some distance away, he could hear the thunder rolling. His ears craned, enjoying the sound of the sonic boom now that he was out of the water. Mingling with the crash, however, he could hear something, something splashing. The boy looked across the flowing water, narrowing his eyes to make out what lay across it.

A black form stood in the middle of the river, the water rushing around its shoulders. Lenny set down his pole and tackle box and walked a little closer to the thing in the middle of the river. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was a pony. Its long dark hair swayed in the current, moving like reeds. It was a beautiful, young creature, and he gathered it must have escaped from one of the nearby ranches.

"Well this is no good," Lenny said, loud enough for the pony to hear, "There's a storm coming. You'll drown." He walked along the edge of the river so he came to stand parallel to the young horse. It turned its black head and looked at him, its eyes reflecting in the dying, grey light of the storm. A chill ran down the fisherman's spine, though he did not know why. He turned and snapped a leafy branch from a bush and extended it outward toward the pony.

"Here boy! Or girl!" he called across the sound of churning waters. The pony did not so much as twitch, and so Lenny moved closer to it, reaching out with branch and whistling, "C'mere!"

But still the pony did not move, only continuing to watch him. Lenny decided that it must be scared and wouldn't budge on its own. He'd have to wade out to it. The branch fell from his fingers and he entered the water, sloshing out to meet the dark eyed beauty.

He was now a few feet from it, the river easily up to his chest. Gently, he lifted a hand to its cheek, letting it rest there. The pony's flesh was icy cold, wet, though no shiver passed through its body.

"Come on," he urged the little beast, coming closer still. Rain began to fall, pattering against the foliage above. Thunder cracked again, and Lenny flinched although the animal did not. Lenny looked up at the sky, his face paling as he saw lightning fork across it. He spoke to the animal with a twinge of panic creeping into his words,

"Move!" he commanded and tried to move the hand touching the pony's cheek. But it did not move. It was as if his skin was suctioned to the black hide beneath his palm, an unearthly force keeping it there. A cry escaped his lips as he began to desperately pull on his hand, trying to walk backward toward the shore. He wriggled and writher, tugging at his arm with his whole body.

And now the pony moved, closing the distance between its body and boy's. Lenny could see how its skull seemed to press against its face, its flesh sinking between bones. Its ribs protruded from collapsing skin, and the darkness in its eyes, rolling in heavy sockets, seemed infinitely deep. No longer was the pony beautiful, but thin, emaciated, its breathing heavy and slow in its chest.

Lenny shook as it approached him, feeling its breath against his skin. Then it pressed its side against Lenny's, and he felt the rubber waders cling to the horse's body like a magnet. He was pinned. A long, trembling wail issued from him, rising higher than the beating clouds above him. Then the pony reared up on its hind legs, and he found himself at its mercy, utterly powerless to free himself. It came crashing down, submerging its body into the gushing river, and Lenny was pulled down with it.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"So," Dean said as he came back into the motel room. Sam had decided to hang back and do more research while Dean scoped out the local bar for leads. "Find anything? What did Bobby say?" Dean hung up his plastic rain coat on a peg by the door and tossed his keys onto his bedside table. Sam looked up from his computer.

"Yeah actually. How 'bout you? Any luck?"

"Yep. Apparently," Dean said, "Ms. Porter has a bit of a reputation." He grinned a tad.

"How so?" Sam leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his stomach.

"Get this," Dean said, sitting down across from Sam and reaching for the whiskey bottle next to the computer, "Seems she had thing with Jeremy. Everybody but his girlfriend seemed to know 'bout it." He took a drink from the bottle.

"Unless she's hiding something. Hell hath no fury, right?"

"Could be," Dean set the bottle down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "Angry girlfriend gets revenge."

"Still doesn't explain the other vics though." Sam's eyes drifted back to his computer screen.

"So, what did you and Bobby find?" Dean nodded to the laptop.

"Well," Sam said, turning the screen to face Dean, "He thinks it might be a kelpie."

"A what?"

"A waterhorse. According to legend, they drown and eat their victims. _Male_ victims. Sound familiar?"

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"You don't say."

The eldest brother scanned the website Sam had put up for him, skimming the lore, taking in the pictures. Pasted just above the references was a black steed. Its rolling eyes were white, and its hair hung lank and green about its shoulders.

"Says here that they're part of Scottish and Irish folklore," observed Dean as he refocused on the text, "So then what would one be doing in North Dakota?"

"Well, it's not exactly a bad place to hide with so many ranches and rivers around."

"So what? We have to go around and check everyone's ponies? How do you even tell them apart from normal horses?"

"It's not easy. They can take the form of women, which is about half the town's population. But, these sites also say they're usually dark haired women. Likewise, the horses are dark."

"Thanks, nerd," Dean teased, though with a touch of affection that only an older brother would know, "And do you know how many dark haired women there are in town?"

Sam sighed heavily, slumping a little and running a hand through his hair as he thought.

"Well, for starters, how many of them live near a river?"

Dean and Sam exchanged looks, the same idea running through both of their minds.

"I'm thinkin' we need to pay Ms. Porter's ranch another visit," Dean declared and stood up, "Good'a place as any to start."

"And what, we just stake it out?"

Dean paused a second, "Yeah, that's the plan. You got a better one?" he said as he raised the bottle to his lips once more, drank, and set it down, "And how do you kill one of these things?"

"You know," Sam rationalized with a short laugh and slight smile tugging at the sides of his mouth, "Just because she has dark hair and lives near a river, doesn't mean she's a kelpie."

"Do you have a better plan, Sam?" Dean already knew the answer to his question.

"Look, let's at least split up. You cover Ms. Porter's ranch. I'll check out what's around town and the nearby area. Maybe see what's going on around the other ranches." Sam didn't like putting all of his eggs in one basket.

"Alright. But did Bobby say how you kill one?" Dean asked again.

"Not exactly… That's what I was trying to dig up."

"Great," Dean muttered.

"_However_," Sam continued, "There is a theory that if you bridle one, it'll turn back into a normal horse."

"So all we have to do is put a muzzle on it and we're good?"

"Well," Sam was about to bring more bad news, and Dean could see it forming in his face, "You have to get close enough to put the bridle on. But if you touch the kelpie's skin, you're stuck to it."

"Right, so, muzzle the horse without touching it. Can't be too hard, right?" Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder and walked to the door and his coat, "Keep your phone on. Call me if you see anything."

"Sure. Yeah, of course," Sam nodded, "Same with you."

"And let me know if you find any bridles."

The brothers grabbed their raincoats, left the motel, and peeled away from one another, each slipping into the shadows. Rain pattered down, smattering the side walk and the plastic of their jackets. It was a miserable night to be walking the town, searching for clues, and tracks of rain water carrying dirt and filth trickled down the sidewalks and asphalt roads. Sam headed off West, his ears strained to catch any sound other than the falling rain. Dean, on the other hand, had taken the Impala and was heading off toward Ms. Porter's ranch. He didn't like the idea of walking all that way, especially in the rain. The plan was, however, to keep it far enough in the distance so it wouldn't be visible from her house, its headlights cut.

Unfortunately, Dean was not fast enough in reaching the ranch to overhear the conversation going on within Ms. Porter's house.

As Dean cut across the country side, Ms. Porter was standing in her living room, arms folded, eyeing up the dark haired little girl. Greta was grinning in a most peculiar fashion for a child. Her smile was cocky, a challenging smirk, and she was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her face and neck, and coated in a mixture of dirt and blood. Her body was loose, draped over the sofa as if she were relaxing, not at all the way a kid would act when being told off.

"But he was rude to you," Greta wheedled, looking at her finger nails which still had flesh caked under them, "And you didn't feed me today."

"You can't do that!" Ms. Porter snapped furiously, her fists balled at her sides, "That's how many men dead? How many now?"

"Oh, but they had it coming to them," the little girl said calmly, still eyeing her fingers with interest, "This whole town is full of rude men. It simply won't do." Greta shook her head slowly.

"You can't kill people!" Ms. Porter continued, "What do I have to do to make you understand that? We'll get caught! Those men were _hunters_! "

Greta's eyes drifted up from her hands to stare at Ms. Porter.

"You think I honestly care about them?" She laughed, "No, they're women hating men too, and they'll get what's coming to them."

"Look," Ms. Porter closed her eyes tightly, voice constricted as she tried not to raise it, "I've looked after you for a _very_ long time. But I can't keep being your caretaker if you don't stop killing people." When she opened her eyes, a different person was sitting on the couch, though Ms. Porter didn't react or seem surprised. Where the little girl had been now sat an old woman. Her wrinkles were deep, her face gray, hair long, wild, and white. Her flesh was sunken along her arms and legs, pressed tightly against her bones. Gnarled hands gripped the arms of the sofa tightly, and her body was less at ease now, tension mounting.

"You think I need you?" the old woman said in a raspy breath, "You think I need _you_?" She laughed again, coldly.

"Go on," challenged Ms. Porter, "Leave then. Go on!" She pointed toward the door, and Greta stared back, no laughter in her face now.

"I'm only protecting you, dear," she soothed, standing up and laying a hand on Ms. Porter's shoulder, "These men want to hurt you. Why, where I was born, men were subservient and women were given their due respect. "A string of spittle ran down her chin, and she wiped it was impatiently. "That's why you took me in, right? To protect you?" The old woman fingered a lock of Ms. Porter's brown hair, twisting it and curling it round and round.

"You kill again," Ms. Porter said in a controlled, quiet fury, "You're out. Do you understand me? Out!"

Greta sighed heavily through her nostrils, not unlike the snort of a horse. She glared deeply at Ms. Porter, holding her gaze there for a few seconds, and then stalked away up the stairs, impressively graceful for somebody who looked over ninety years old.

Ms. Porter stood alone in the living room, shaking a little, and put her forehead in her hands, cradling it as she thought. In the far off distance she thought she could hear somebody approaching, the crunch of gravel somewhere far off perhaps. Perhaps coming to rescue her. Perhaps coming to kill them all. For a moment, the woman thought about the two hunters and wondered if she should turn Greta over to them. Through pursed lips she looked to her front door, eyes wide.

By this time, Dean had made his way onto her property and was skirting the edges of it, searching for something, anything, that would indicate Ms. Porter was somehow linked to the murders. But the rain was so thick and the night so dark it was hard to see, even with the timid beam of his flashlight. He had to be careful so as not to alert the women inside the ranch house. In all honesty, this would have been a better job for the morning. But Dean combed the ranch as best as he could, checking the pasture, the stable, but found nothing out of the ordinary other than soggy and lopsided hoof prints. It was aggravating business, and the only thing Dean really wanted was some more whiskey.

So he came to hunch down outside of Ms. Porter's ranch house, just in time to see the lights in her living room flicker out. Then all was still. Nothing moved for hours, and Dean was soaked through, the rain driving down. It was hardly worth it to stay; nobody had come out and nothing in the pasture was moving. But Dean was stubborn and wasn't about to let it go just yet. His gut said one thing while his head said another.

He crawled behind a bush, taking some shelter from the typhoon blowing through. He thumbed a water droplet off of the end of his nose and rested his head against the house's panel. Eyes closed, he began to think. Death swam to the surface of his mind, God not far behind him. He could still see the dim candles flickering in the Chicago pizza shop. He wondered if he were to go there in real life if Death would be waiting for him. Ellen's face took God's and Death's place, and Cas was with her. Cas's overcoat was at Bobby's house, safe, sound, tucked away in a place where Dean wouldn't have to look at it and remember. The water around the overcoat was so cold when Dean had stooped to pull it out. So cold, so like tonight and chill rain falling.

He opened his eyes, staring dully into the dark, tired in many more ways than one and not really paying attention to much of anything at this point. Then he felt his phone vibrating in a coat pocket. The sensation woke him from his daze, and he put the phone up to his ear.

"You alright?" he said in greeting to Sam, running a hand down his face to brush the water off, "Find something?"

"You could say that," came Sam's voice from the other end, "Or what's left of something."

"Another vic?"

"Yep."

"Where are you?"

"Spot close to where the last guy washed up. Seems this thing has a hunting ground picked out." Sam sounded preoccupied, no doubt inspecting the new body.

"I'm heading your way."

"Guess you didn't find anything?"

"Nodda. Besides Ms. Porter going to bed, not much has happened." Dean looked around the property once more, as if hoping to be wrong.

"Well, see you in a few then."

"Yeah."

Dean clicked his phone off, putting it into his pocket, and stood up, feeling stiff. He crept back through the darkness, toward the car, failing to notice a twitching curtain from the upstairs' window.

It didn't take Dean long to spot Sam once he had found the location where Jeremy had washed up. Dean walked along the river bank, a flashlight in hand, passing its beam over rocks, tree roots, and tangled bushes, until he saw his brother's form stooped over a dark mass on the shoreline. Sam had squatted down next to the body, his own flashlight illuminating chunks of missing flesh, gashes, and tears.

"Any idea who he is?...was?" Dean said in greeting, crossing his beam of light with Sam's.

"No idea. Didn't find any I.D. on him." Sam stood up, wiped his hands off on his pants, and folded his arms, all the while never breaking his gaze from the young man. Water still pooled in the dead boy's mouth, gathered there from the river and falling rain, his eyes were half open and glazed over, and blood coupled with river muck tinged his blond hair. Dean crouched down by the body and gently shut the young man's eyes with a light brush of his hand.

"Anything on him? Clues?" Dean asked, turning his light to inspect the various wounds.

"More hair. Same color and length as the last one. " Sam rummaged around in his coat and pulled out another bag. Dean glanced up at it and gave a single nod, then looked back down at the body. "And this," Sam knelt back down and gingerly took up the dead man's hand. He turned it in his fingers so the palm faced the sky. Coated to the dead man's palm was a thick brown substance, sticky and molasses like. The fingers were stuck together, though it looked as though they were just starting to loosen apart.

"I wouldn't touch it," Sam cautioned, "But it looks like it rubs off after a while."

"Which would explain why the other bodies didn't have any," Dean added, leaning his head forward a little to get a better look at the hand, "What is this crap?"

"Some sort of adhesive, maybe?" Sam wrinkled his brow, "Or sap?"

"How'd it get on his hand?"

"Well, the lore did say that if you touched the kelpie, you'd get stuck to it-"

"And this is some kind of glue."

"Like a fly stuck in a spider's web," Sam lowered the hand so it rested on the dead boy's chest. Just then Dean's phone began to vibrate again.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered as he pulled out the phone, "What is it, Bobby?"

"You boys done yet?" came Bobby Singer's voice from the other end.

"No, why?" Dean stood up, noting the impatience in Bobby's voice, and Sam's eyes followed Dean with concern and curiosity.

"Well when you pair get done there, I need you to check out Iowa."

"Iowa? Why Iowa?" Dean's brow furrowed.

"Look, I've been followin' the news, and there's somethin' strange goin' on there."

"Like how strange? We talkin' Leviathan strange?" Dean's heart picked up its pace a little bit and the look on Sam's face hardened.

"Don't know yet. The town's called Grey Mill. Water in it's been runnin' black according to some folk. People are goin' missin', too. Mind checkin' it out?"

"Sure thing, Bobby. We'll hit it up after we wrap up here."

"'Preciate it."

"Talk to you later."

The line cut out.

"Another case?" Sam asked. Dean didn't answer immediately, thinking hard.

"Looks like it," he finally replied, putting his phone away.

"What did Bobby say?"

"Iowa. People are reporting black water and missing persons."

"He think it's Leviathan related?"

"Not sure yet, but he wants us to check it out."

It had been a long night and dawn was coming soon. He looked back down at John Doe. He had a bad feeling and something told him the feeling wouldn't lift for a long time to come.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dawn broke over Ivory. The sun greeted the gray clouds which politely departed and went on their way, leaving a chill in the air in their wake. The earth was sodden and needed a good wringing out. Dean's precious Impala glinted with dewy raindrops and soft morning light. Both of the Winchester boys lay in their motel beds, catching a few hours of sleep while they could. Neither of them had ever slept particularly well, even as children. Worry about their father became worry about one another which then became Hell

Dean was the first to awaken, and blearily he stared up at the ceiling. Sun light was creeping through the shades of the motel window, sending long shafts of light stretching across his bed. With a hand shielding his face from the light, Dean sat up and looked at the clock. It was 10:07 a.m. He blinked a few times, the numbers steadily coming into better focus. Five hours of sleep.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" he called gruffly, his voice a little hoarse, tossing a pillow at his brother. Sam jerked awake with a start.

"I'm up! I'm up!" Sam wiped the sleep from his eyes while Dean put a whiskey bottle to his lips and flushed the taste of morning from his mouth, clearing out his throat.

"Really?" Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, his eyes on the bottle in his brother's hands.

"What?" Dean asked, setting the bottle down and disappeared into the bathroom.

"You know what," Sam called after him, "You're drinking yourself a new kidney."

Dean's head appeared around the bathroom door.

"And?" he said with a toothbrush between teeth.

"And," Sam continued, "Maybe ease up a little? Come on, it's 10 a.m."

Dean sighed. "The bottle's down, Sam. Relax. Can we talk about something else?" Dean wasn't keen on a psyche analysis, though in truth, he never was. Sam looked a little exasperated. "Like, breakfast. I'm thinking pancakes! Pancakes sound good to you?" Dean grinned and disappeared back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

"Shouldn't we be worrying about the case?" Sam said to the shut door.

"Oh, come on Sammy!" wheedled Dean as he turned on the shower, "Pancakes and bacon! Who can say no to dead pig strips?"

Sam gave a sound of irritation which went unheard over the thundering shower.

Just then there came a hasty knock at the motel room door. Sam looked over at it, startled, wondering who could possibly know where they were. Both brothers made a point of keeping their whereabouts on the down-low. Sam paused uncertainly before slowly walking over to the bed and pulling a handgun out from under it. He carefully pressed the hand with the gun against his back as the urgent rapping continued. With a glance at the bathroom door, Sam inched toward the sound. Squinting, he peered through the spy-hole in the door, and on the other side saw a distorted toss of brown hair. Ms. Porter.

She knocked again, tapping one foot nervously on the ground. Sam gingerly tucked the gun into one of the coat's hanging from the coatrack and opened the door.

"Ms. Porter?" Sam said, slightly surprised, as the woman flinched and clutched her chest. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all that night, disheveled with large blue rings circling each eye. Shakily she looked over each shoulder, and then spoke.

"I don't have much time. Can I come in?"

"Sure. Yeah, um, sit." Sam stood aside, pointing awkwardly to the table on the other side of the room. She nodded and walked to the table. Sam shut the door, looking at her with puzzle in his gaze.

"Where's your partner? Smith…or Reeves was it?" Ms. Porter asked, sitting down, a little feverish. Sam sat down across from her, eyeing the increasing distress in her face with some concern.

"He's in the shower," Sam started, "Is something wrong?"

She nodded.

"Look, I know you boys ain't agents," she said it straight and her directness caught Sam a little off guard, "You're hunters. And I need both your help." Sam straightened up in his seat a little bit.

"You mean the killings." It wasn't a question, and Ms. Porter didn't deny it.

"It's Greta-"

"You mean your daughter?"

"No," said Ms. Porter, shaking her head, "She ain't my daughter. I never birthed her, but I've taken care of her so long I might as well have."

Drifting over their conversation, both could hear Dean singing in the shower. Sam pointedly tried to ignore his brother and gave Ms. Porter a look that was half apologetic and half imploring.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked seriously.

"She came to me years ago," Ms. Porter leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, some of her composure returning, "And I knew what she was. I'd worked with others like her. Or I'd seen them at least. Family business. Sometimes you pick one up on accident when you're in the horse trade. They normally come and go, though. But she was needy."

"Ms. Porter, what is Greta?" Sam's eyes met hers. Ms. Porter didn't answer right away, looking out the window contemplatively.

"A Waterhorse," she said softly, "A monster. She's been killin' the men in town. She scares me. This isn't the first town she's killed in." Ms. Porter fixed Sam with a hard look. "I know what you boys do with monsters. And I love Greta, but I can't control her. She don't want to be controlled."

"Look, Ms. Porter," Sam said gently, "My brother and I can handle it, but we need your cooperation." In truth, they could probably get the job done with or without the woman's cooperation, but with would make it far easier.

Ms. Porter was silent for a while.

"Is there any way you can avoid killing her?" Her voice was pleading and her jaw trembled a bit. She looked at her folded arms and hands, unable to meet his eyes as she begged for Greta's life, knowing that the woman probably didn't deserve it.

"We might be able to. But I can't promise anything."

"Well, that's something then," she sounded slightly relieved, "Do what you can." Ms. Porter then stood up, the strong woman from the previous day back in place.

"Nightfall," she said as she strode to the door, Sam walking behind her, "She don't care too much for your brother, was it? Be by the river."

"We'll need to borrow a few things of yours."

"Like what?"

"A bridle, actually. It…might help to save her life. We don't know for sure though."

"I'll leave one by the river. Just be there at dusk." Ms. Porter silently left and Sam shut the door after her, his brow furrowed in thought. He felt sorry for the woman, empathizing with her, but wondering if it was right of him to try and save the monster. He was sure that lore or not, a silver bullet to the brain would do the trick, though he wouldn't voice the hunch to Dean right away. Not if he wanted cooperation. But if the bridle could work and a life could be saved…any life…

The bathroom door swung open and a cascade of steam billowed from it. Dean let out a satisfied sigh, still holding his wet towel in his arms, and looked at Sam, noting his proximity to the front door.

"Did someone come in?" Dean asked, his grin fading a bit as he took in his brother's pensieve expression.

"Ms. Porter," Sam answered, moving away from the door.

"Oh yeah? What did she want?" Dean sat down on the bed, putting on and doing up his boots.

"Well," Sam started, "The little girl we saw wasn't her daughter. She's the kelpie."

"You mean Gretchen?"

"Greta. And yeah, she's the one who's been killing the men in town."

Dean let out a long, low whistle.

"No kidding," Dean finished up his shoes, "I knew she was creepy. So , Ms. Porter want us to ice the thing?"

"Well, Bobby's way is the only thing we've come across, and Ms. Porter agreed to give us a bridle."

"And if muzzling it doesn't work?"

"Silver bullet?"

"Works for me," Dean nodded as he tugged on his jacket, "Have to say, we don't get many cases where the monster lives. Don't get your hopes up."

"I'm not," Sam said, a pulse starting in his jaw, his gaze dark.

"Come on, Sammy, brighten up!" Dean shoved a wet towel into his brothers arms and clapped him on the shoulder, "How 'bout you go shower and then we'll talk breakfast. Pancakes!"

Joshua twiddled his hoe, examining the foliage surrounding him with mild interest.

"So, it's nearly time then," he said to plants and sky, looking up.

He wasn't surprised. He had been waiting for it, preparing for it, for years, centuries upon centuries. Though that didn't make the situation any less difficult or complicated.

"Yes. Yes, I understand," he sighed, nodding slowly, a faint smile touching his lips, "Though, it could mean war, you know." But he was hardly surprised at the notion of war; this tiny planet seemed to only ever be caught in the middle of something catastrophic. But it _had_ to be this tiny planet.

Joshua waited for the response, listening to the voice inside of him closely for further instructions. Nothing stirred in the Garden. No wind blew. No birds or insects stirred. Everything was quiet and still, but Joshua could already feel the unease mounting in the air.

"And he mustn't know?" He listened again, the deep energy coming to him softly, in mere whispers. He could feel his Father waning, his voice barely audible even in this silent garden.

"I will tell them when they appear, rest assured. You put more faith in my brothers than I do. But, maybe I shouldn't be so skeptical all of the time." Joshua sighed heavily, gripping his hoe tightly. He felt old, so old, almost as old as his beloved Father, and wished that some part of him could follow after God once everything was said and done. But his duty would remain here, among the leaves and the flowers, to his brothers and to Man, whatever became of them both.

"I will." Joshua gave his last promise as the voice finished, receding quietly. The angel looked out over his freshly tilled land, the freshly tilled heaven, raised his eyebrows slightly, shook his head, and began to work the ground with his hoe. One thing was for certain, the Garden was the sole sanctuary left for a thousand and one universes; the flowers would always be the flowers, and the leaves would always be the leaves. It was the one place that peace truly existed, and to know a place like that still remained was enough for Joshua's old bones.

"Damnit, Sammy!" Dean said angrily, waist deep in river water. Sam smirked, "Why'd I have to be the bait? It's freezing!"

"She doesn't like you," Sam called to his brother, openly enjoying Dean's indignation and irritation.

"Why me? You're the one with the stick up the ass!" Dean looked around desperately while Sam gave him a look. The younger brother shook his head and stared out into the gathering darkness, the sun's light dying over the horizon. A chill was creeping into the air, and Sam tugged at his jacket, not envying his brother who was looking less and less happy by the second.

"You better keep your friggin' cake hole shut!" A shivering Dean jabbed a finger pointedly at Sam.

"Whatever you say," Sam tried not to look too pleased. Instead, he stooped over to inspect the leather halter Ms. Porter had left behind a large bush. He hoped it was strong enough to withstand a waterhorse.

Sam heard a sloshing from the river and looked up from the bridle to see Dean wading out of the water.

"I thought you were waiting for her to show up?"

"It's a dumb idea. She'll know it's a trap. I mean, who in their friggin' mind wades through a river at night? Crazy people!"

"Well, we are pretty crazy," Sam pointed out. Dean froze for a second, and then gave in. It was true, after all. Normal people didn't come close to doing what they did.

Sam's phone suddenly began to vibrate. He straightened up, pulling it out of his pocket.

"Can it wait? We're kind of in the middle of something?" Dean said, but Sam had already flicked the phone open and had it to his ear. Sam held up a finger, listening hard.

"Wait, wait, calm down! Ms. Porter?" Sam said and Dean was suddenly listening to, coming closer to his brother. "How did you get my number?"

Sam listened for a while, and Dean could hear somebody frantically talking into the other side of the phone. He waited impatiently for the call to end, arms crossed over his chest, legs a little apart to try and relieve some of the chaffing from his wet jeans.

"I'll be right there," Sam shut the phone.

"What was that about?" Dean asked.

"Greta. Apparently she dragged a body home and now Ms. Porter can't find her."

"Great. Look, you go deal with that. I'll wait here and see if the bitch shows up."

"Stay safe."

"You too." Dean nodded to his brother who returned the gesture before hurrying into the darkness.

Dean took a seat on the nearest stump, glad to be out of the water but feeling concerned for Sam. He wished he had a drink to pass the time and the worry, the worry he always felt. But he didn't have a bottle, and so he had to make do.

He picked up a strap on the halter, wondering how on earth you even put it on a horse. Maybe Bobby knew.

Dean withdrew his plastic wrapped, waterproofed cellphone from a shirt pocket (Sam had suggested it), punched Bobby's number into his phone, and waited for the man to pick up.

"Come on, Bobby."

It rang and rang, but went unanswered. Dean snapped the phone shut, cursing under his breath. Why hadn't he asked Sam about the bridle before he'd left?

"Damnit."

He reached down next to the bridle and lifted up the gun loaded with silver bullets, hoping Sam's hunch was right. He revolved the gun in his hands, thinking, rubbed some dirt off of its butt and handle, and then pocketed it.

Almost on cue, he heard something moving nearby, gliding through the water, upsetting the steady trickle. Dean's eyes darted up, though he didn't move an inch yet. He squinted, trying to discern shadow from shadow. Then he spotted something on the opposite shore, a dark mass tucked behind the drooping branches of a tree. The mass was quite still and made no sound, and Dean began to doubt whether he had really heard anything at all. His gaze dropped from the dark patch to scan the rest of the shoreline, and immediately he thought he saw the shadow flicker.

Dean looked back at the low branches, but couldn't tell if anything had really moved, the darkness somehow less dense than before, as if the newly risen moon had dispersed the inky blackness. The hunter withdrew the gun from his pocket, his eyes never leaving the brambles on the other side of the river. He held his position on the stump, a good position as the wood around him granted partial concealment, though that gave him little comfort when dealing with the paranormal.

Dean kept the gun at his side, careful to keep its metal from catching the moonlight.

"I'm not in the trees," came a voice to his right. Dean whipped around in his seat, rising to stand in one fluid motion, the gun pointed at the speaker. The gun fell upon a young woman sitting at the edge of the river, her long brown hair pouring over her naked body. She looked no older than twenty, her skin smooth, pale as death, her eyes sunken, her lips cracked. The woman's hands were balled up into fist before her, clutching the dirt and stone lying around her, mud and gunk oozing between her fingers.

"How eager he is to die?" the woman snickered, "All of you sons of bitches are the same. Pathetic."

"That's my mother you're talking about. You watch that whorish mouth," Dean said coldly, cocking the gun. Her eyes flashed to the weapon.

"You sure that'll work?" she challenged.

"Nope. But I got a way to find out."

The Kelpie slowly got to her feet, river water slowly running down her pearly white body. She took a step forward, her feet barely disturbing the pebbles lining the shore. The woman's arms were spread wide invitingly and a light breeze lifted hair from her neck a torso. She looked beautiful and terrible standing beneath the moon, dark earth caked to her hand and light glinting off of her skin.

"You wouldn't shoot me, would you? You're a gentleman," she cooed, backing up into the river as if to entice him to follow after her, "Why not join me?" She smiled, water lapping around her ankles.

Then a gun went off. Dean jumped, wondering if he had fired the weapon in his hand, but couldn't recall pulling the trigger. He looked around quickly. Bobby rushed from the brush, a gun in one hand and a silver bridle in the other. He fired again, pumping a second bullet into her chest.

The woman fell, blood gushing from her and pluming out into the bubbling river water. Bobby was on her in a flash, hardly giving her a second to realize what was happening. Dean surged forward to assist. The Winchester boy grabbed her arms and pinned them to her sides. She kicked out, writhing in Dean's arms and tossing her head madly. Bobby pressed the harness to her face, forcing the bit between her lips, tightening the straps to her face. The kelpie fought and struggled, but the bullets seemed to have lessened her strength. Slowly, her body began to grow limp until she was no more than a rag doll lying in the water.

"Did that do it?" Dean asked, gasping for breath.

"Should do it. The silver bridle turned her human. Or, least it would have. A bullet alone wouldn't outright kill a kelpie, but a bullet in a person sure would." Bobby answered, a grimace coming over his face.

"How'd you find out about that?" Dean nodded to the silver bridle which Bobby was now undoing from the dead girl's face.

"Called a friend of mine. And glad I did, too. You boys would have been in trouble without it," he said, "And for god sake, you can't say no to a naked woman?"

"I can never say no to a naked woman," Dean answered.

"Idjit."

Just then Dean's phone began to ring. He pulled it out and put it to his ear.

"What is it, Sammy?" he said while Bobby began to drag the body from the river.

"Ms. Porter's dead," Sam answered.

"What?" Dean stood up, confused.

"Greta must have done it…by the looks of things." Sam's voice was a little pained as he was obviously pouring over the body at that very moments.

"Think she might have made the call, too? Wouldn't be the first time a spirit has pulled that kind of crap."

"She might have."

"You alright? Need me to come over there?" Dean asked.

"I'm fine. I can finish up. How about you? You find anything?"

"Yep. Got the bitch."

"S'cuse me?" Came Bobby's voice from the riverbank, loud enough for Sam to hear.

"Is that Bobby?" Sam asked Dean.

"Your brother would have been horse-feed if I hadn't shown up."

"Yeah, that's Bobby," Dean confirmed, "Look, we'll finish up here and come to you, alright?" Dean could tell Sam wasn't as fine as he made himself out to be. Even though death hung on them like a bloodhound, he could hear a faint shock in his brother's voice.

"Fine by me."


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

The Impala ran all night and well into the next morning. Sam, Dean, and Bobby didn't hang around long after cleaning up the mess in Ivory. The monster had been put down, and their next case weighed heavily on their minds. However, Bobby had advised coming back to his place first to make a plan. Sam agreed, but Dean felt the need to go in with guns blazing. The longer a monster was in an area, the more people died, and making plans took time.

"Why make a plan now?" Dean challenged Bobby before they left, "You thought there might be Leviathans here, too."

"To be honest, I didn't. But I figured it was best to prepare for the worst anyhow. But this stuff in Iowa…it's just weird."

"Well, how do we make a plan against something we don't know a damned thing about? By going in there, that's how!"

"Look, idjit, I'm not throwing you to the dogs without givin' you boys some sort of ammo. Humor me. Didn't Death say these things were so bad, God had to lock'em up?"

Sam had agreed with Bobby and Dean, though still unconvinced, folded and agreed to meet at Bobby's.

"It's only for a while. So we can gain some insight into this thing," Sam said in the car as they drove onward.

"I know, Sammy," Dean said with a hint of bite on his tongue. He sighed heavily, shaking his head as the Impala purred under him. The hunter felt an itch growing in his chest. His gut told him that this was it, this was Leviathan, but, in truth, whether or not it was Leviathan, it didn't matter. His haste was less about the monsters and more about doing _something_. Death had told him about the impending demise of God, and naturally, things would (most likely very literally) go to Hell. Dean couldn't do anything about that problem, not right now, and it made him restless. This Leviathan business, on the other hand, he _could _try and do something about. When the two situations collided, he felt itchy, a burning need to do something, to help somebody, so that maybe, just maybe, he could make a difference. But Sam and Bobby were right; charging right into Iowa without scoping the situation out first was a bad idea. And thus Dean began to bury his itch with only some success.

Dean stewed in his thoughts, barely aware of the road, of the soft music playing in the background, or of the glances his brother kept shooting him.

"Uh, Dean," Sam said. Dean blinked, rousing from his thoughts.

"What?"

"You just passed the turn off."

Dean's eyes darted around the car, to the side mirrors, the rear mirror, and he quickly swiveled in his seat to stare at the large road sign now melting into the distance.

"Son of a bitch!" he swore loudly and immediately began looking for a place to turn around.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Why?" Dean still held some abrasion in his voice.

"You've been tense lately. Drinking. Angry mood swings. Missing turn offs-" Dean could hear the list starting and quickly cut his brother off.

"I'm fine, Sammy. Just tired is all."

"You sure?"

"…Yeah. I've been driving all night." Dean couldn't really lie to Sam, he and knew Sam wasn't convinced.

"You want me to take over?" Sam offered. Dean sat silently for a minute, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel.

"Sure," he responded. Swiftly, Dean pulled the car over to the side of the road, turned it off, and unbuckled himself from the seat. The two boys left the car and switched sides without a word, Dean's face hard and thoughtful, Sam's soft and watchful, looking to the horizon just before disappearing beneath the car's roof. Sam turned the key and the Impala rumbled to life. Dean leaned his head against the window but did not sleep, his eyes roaming across the scenery passing by.

Once turned around, it took the boys only an hour before they reached Bobby's house. Bobby had beaten them by maybe thirty minutes. The boys entered to find the television on, Bobby leaning toward it, a cold, half-empty beer in his hands.

"What took you boys?" Bobby said, looking up from the screen upon their entry.

"Missed the turn off," Dean said shortly and pointed to the television, "Anything happening?"

"Not yet. Been checkin' every news station. Nothin'." Bobby took a sip from the bottle while Sam took a seat and pulled out his laptop.

"I'll see if I can dig anything up online,"

"Good thinkin," Bobby said, returning to the news. Dean headed off into the kitchen to get two more beers from the fridge. He yanked the refrigerator door open and reached inside, cradling two bottles in his hand. Then he paused, staring absently out the window above the sink, setting the beers down. He gripped the edge of the sink, pursing his lips as he thought, brow furrowed. He felt unbelievably tired and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Maybe he'd go lie down in a bit.

Then something roused him. There, just on the edge of Bobby's property, skirting the edge of it, he thought he saw something, something moving. Dean blinked a few times, thinking it had been a person, but still uncertain. It had been there and then it hadn't, and he couldn't be sure of what he had seen. Blood-shot eyes screwed up against the midday sun, the hunter leaned forward, trying to see what it could have been. But there was nothing now.

"Dean!" Sam called from the other room, "Everything alright in there?"

Dean relaxed a bit, looking down at the beers and taking them up in his hands.

"Yeah," he shouted back. His eyes trailed upward once more, to the window, searching one last time whatever had moved, his jaw clenched. Then he left the sink and walked back into the living room, passing off the second beer to Sam.

"Bobby, what's the town's name again?" Sam asked as he hammered away on his laptop.

"Springcreek."

Dean took a seat near Bobby and uncapped his beer, put it his lips, and drank. The three of them sat there, immersed in a news hunt, though nothing seemed to come up about Springcreek or Iowa. Dean nodded off after a while, his head falling back between his shoulders as he slumbered, the beer slack in his hands.

"This is strange," Sam finally commented, his brow furrowed, a frown on his face. Dean jerked awake at the sound of his brother's voice.

"Find somethin'?" Bobby asked, looking up at the boy. Sam shook his head.

"Nothing," Sam replied, his voice a little distracted. Dean raised his eyebrows.

"And how is that weird, exactly?" He said groggily.

"I mean," Sam looked up from the screen to the two men near him, "There's nothing. Nothing at all. It's like… any news was erased."

"Erased?" Dean said, standing up and walking over to Sam.

"You thinkin' something's up?" Bobby asked.

"Well, you said you'd found news on water going black, right? I can't even find that. It looks like any recent information has been taken down."

"Seems like something's up, alright," Dean folded his arms, "What do we do now?"

Bobby sat back in his seat. He clicked off the television, wracking his brains for something useful. Then it clicked.

"Wait a second," Bobby said standing up, and the boys straightened up with interest.

"What's up?" Sam asked, setting the laptop down on the floor by his feet.

"I might know a guy who can help. He's a bit of a hard-ass, but he owes me."

"Anybody we know?" Dean said and Bobby shook his head, walking to the kitchen. The old hunter began to rummage through drawers, sifting through papers and journals quickly, his fingers fumbling with old address books and notes. Sam and Dean followed behind him, hanging back in the kitchen doorway. Then he raised a faded bit of paper and put it in Dean's hand.

"His name's Frank Devereaux. I saved his life a while back. He might be able to give us a hand. Address is on that." Bobby pointed to the paper.

"Need us to go find him?" Sam offered and Bobby nodded.

"Give him my name. And for god-sake, don't sneak up on him."

Sam smirked a little bit and gave a short nod, "We'll try not to."

"Luck, boys."


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Sam. Sam! Hello, Sam._

Sam had his eyes shut, attempting to ignore the wheedling voice in his ear. He was trying to sleep, but he couldn't quite rid his expression of the paralytic fear that sometimes got the better of him whenever Lucifer appeared. His face would tighten, a vein would beat quickly in his temple, and he would disconnect from the world entirely. Sam was steadily getting better at managing this fear, but sometimes he didn't quite have a handle on it. It was, after all, Hell that he was holding back, even if it was just hallucinations. Dean looked over from the driver's seat, recognizing the symptoms.

"Sam? You okay?" he asked his brother. Sam didn't respond right away, and Dean repeated himself, his voice calm and steady.

"Fine. Yeah, sorry, just resting," Sam finally replied, not opening his eyes, Lucifer's voice gently fading out. Sam relaxed. He knew Dean was on high alert at all times for anything alarming. Nothing Sam did could quell his brother's concern, but he did his best to reassure Dean when his "condition" came up. _Build on what's was real. Baby steps._

"You sure?" Dean was still worried, creases forming between his eyebrows as he frowned at Sam's face, "Need me to pull over?"

"No, Dean. I'm fine. Really," Sam opened his eyes and nodded to his brother who looked anything but convinced. But whatever Dean thought he swallowed down and gave a short nod, letting Hell drop. Sam sat up a bit, knowing sleep wasn't going to come.

"We close?" Sam asked, glancing at the car's clock.

"Should be," Dean pulled the piece of paper Bobby gave him from a pocket (with a little bit of difficulty as he was also trying to drive a car) and gave it a few quick glances as he navigated his baby down the road.

_It's rude to ignore me, Sam. I'm trying to be conversational._

Sam flinched a little as the voice picked up from the Impala's back seat. He hid the jerk with a feigned cough and slouched against the window, trying hard not to look behind him.

"What's the address again?" Sam asked and Dean gave him the little piece of paper. Sam looked at it hard as Lucifer continued on, talking away in a pleasant voice.

"Here," Dean turned the car down a gravely, dirt road. The moon slid behind some drifting clouds, and for a second the world was bathed in darkness. The car jostled its way down the obscure dirt driveway and stopped in front a small, dark looking house. Dean was the first to get out of the car, his eyes fixed on the dark upstairs windows. Sam followed his brother. The two Winchesters walked up to the front door and Dean banged his fist against it.

"Frank? Frank Deveraux?" Dean called. There was no answer and Dean continued his hammering. "Open up, Frank!"

"Is it locked?" Sam asked, nodding toward the door handle.

"Let's find out," Dean said and clasped a hand around the handle. It didn't open, "Plan B."

"You sure breaking in is a good idea?" Sam raised an eyebrow as Dean knelt down and began to pick the lock, "Bobby did say not to catch him by surprise."

"Come on, Sammy! Where's your sense of adventure?" Dean cocked a grin as the door opened a smidge, "Awesome. Come on."

The Winchesters slipped inside. To their left was a living room, a fire going in its hearth, a sofa sitting in front of it, and several tables laden with various wires, computer screens, cell phones, and other things. To their right was a staircase, and in front of them looked to be a kitchen, a light still on. Dean whistled while he moved to inspect the living room. Sam paused in the hallway, looking up the dark stair case and then peering into the kitchen. He noted that there were scrambled eggs on the stove, still in their pan and just cooked. It looked as though somebody had been there only moments ago.

Sam made his way gingerly through the kitchen, reaching for a gun in his pocket. Just as he was about to pull the gun out, he heard a click behind him. The youngest Winchester's shoulders slumped, a grimace on his face.

"And just who in Hell are you?" said a voice. Sam put his hands up and turned around to face the balding, portly man behind him. The man narrowed his eyes over a pair of glasses, a shot gun in his hand.

"Sam Winchester," Sam said as his brother appeared in the kitchen entrance.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Dean said, pulling out his own gun and pointing it at the man, "Come on!"

The man swung his head around to face Dean, though the gun was still on Sam.

"This is my brother, Dean," Sam said quickly, "Look, I'm sorry. We didn't mean to barge in."

"Winchester," the man said in a low, speculating tone, "Yeah, I know the name." He kept the gun up.

"You're Frank?" Sam continued.

"Maybe. Depends."

"We need your help," Sam carried on hastily, but he kept his eyes unwaveringly on Frank.

"Help?" Frank laughed, "Get out of my house."

"Bobby Singer sent us," Dean jumped in, raising his own gun a little higher, "He said you owed him."

Frank sputtered, his eyes wide.

"Singer? Bobby Singer? Damnit," Frank cursed and finally lowered the gun, though he did not set it down. Dean noticed this and lowered his own gun while Sam jumped on the opportunity.

"Just hear us out. We need help on a case."

Frank eyed the two boys up, glancing from one to the other, thinking hard. Then the man sighed and trudged through to the living room, drawing his curtains shut.

"Were you followed?" he said as the Winchesters filed into the living room.

"No. At least not that we noticed," Sam answered. Frank smirked.

"Not that you noticed," He mocked, "Look, I don't spend long in any one place, and I'm not risking my skin over two careless kids who can't hide their tracks. I prefer to keep off the grid, and I'm not wasting my time-"

Dean cut him off, glaring at Frank, "We weren't followed. Now tell us, can you help?"

Frank took in a long intake of breath through his nose and set his shotgun down.

"GPS turned off on your phones?"

"Yes," Dean's voice was testy.

"What about your laptops? Any of them on you?"

"Mine's in the car," Sam said uncertainly.

"Go get it."

Sam looked at his brother with raised eyebrows. Dean nodded, and a whole silent conversation passed between the two brothers as they exchanged a series of looks and frowns. Finally, Sam left, giving Frank a last confused glance before heading off to the car. He returned a few seconds later with his laptop in his hands. Frank walked over and plucked the computer from Sam, turning it over and inspecting it.

"This _is_ yours?" Frank asked, walking to the closed windows and away from the brothers.

"Yeah…" Sam said with uncertainty.

"By the looks of it you haven't changed laptops in years. Grando mistake," Frank dropped the computer heavily on the floor. It made an unpleasant cracking sound as it smacked against the hard wood. Frank lifted a foot and finished the deed, killing the computer with a swift stomp.

"Hey!" Sam protested in alarm, pointing to his broken computer, Dean looking slightly amused, "Just what do you-"

"If the government can track us through computers, you bet the Leviathans can. Don't worry, I have others. I'll put it on your tab."

"You know about the Leviathans?" Dean said, stricken.

Frank laughed again, but his laugh was not light hearted. It was cold and slightly sardonic. He then began to root through a cupboard full of laptops and other equipment.

"Yep."

"Do you know anything about Springcreek, Iowa?" Dean slipped Frank a piece of paper over his shoulder with Ivory's details. Frank took the paper while choosing a laptop. He passed the new technology over to Sam before checking the information.

"Make sure to change your equipment frequently," he advised, "I can do your cell phones, too, while you're here."

"Thanks for the offer, but we'll do it ourselves. Later." Dean said with a quick, fake smile, not keen on having his phone smashed into a million pieces by this nutcase. Frank looked up from the paper and rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"So, what's the deal with Springcreek?" Frank said with mild interest, turning on another computer stuffed into a corner of the room.

"We think there might be Leviathans there, but we can't be sure," Sam explained, "We need to know what's going in town."

"So, we set up surveillance then. Cameras and whatnot," Frank said nodding, "Yeah, I can do that. It'll cost you fourteen thousand."

"Fourteen thousand what?" Dean said as though he had heard wrong. He blinked a few times.

"Chickens!" Frank said sarcastically, "Dollars, what do you think?"

"I thought you owed Bobby?"

"Yeah, I do. It's a reduced charge. Plus I added the cost of the new laptop," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the machine Sam was clutching, "Plus I'll need to move again. Can't risk getting involved with Leviathans without a few places to hide."

Dean's eyes slid to Sam who was looking as though he were caught between a rock and a hard place.

"S'cuse us a moment," Dean said with another falsely cheery smile, looking back to Frank. Frank just smirked and turned back to the computer screen. Dean jerked his head to Sam, and the pair left the room to stand in the hallway.

"Fourteen thousand dollars? Seriously?" Dean whispered angrily, his face dark, "Who the hell does this guy think he is?"

"Well, what else can we do?" Sam said with a hopeless kind of shrug, "I mean, we have the money."

"I know!" Dean spat, "I just don't like it when guys rip us off."

"Look, if we don't get anything on Springcreek from him, we'll just…rough him up. Or something," Sam suggested, straightening himself a bit and glancing to Frank's back as he hammered away on his computer.

"Rough him up," Dean nodded, looking at Frank as well, though he sounded stronger than he felt, "Right. We'll rough him up. Two of us. One of him."

"Only if he doesn't come through, though," Sam added quickly before Dean could enter the room, catching his brother in the chest.

"I know! Relax, Sammy. I'm not going to ice him," Dean said, then muttered under his breath as they walked back over to Frank, "Yet."

"So, what you boys decide?" Frank spun around in his chair, grinning slightly.

"We'll do it," Sam said.

"Good. I'll call you if I find something."

"How long will it take?" Dean crossed his arms.

"Give me a few days. Week tops. I need to set it all up then start combing the town for anything suspicious."

"You'll call Bobby?" Dean pressed him.

"Yes! I'll call Bobby," Frank sounded annoyed and impatient. The two boys looked at one another, then back to the old, crotchety man.

"Fine. You got a deal."

Neither of the boys were in particularly good moods when they arrived back at Bobby's house early the next morning. Bobby was sitting at his desk with papers strewn about before him. He looked up as the two entered.

"How was it?" Bobby asked as he poured himself a glass of amber whiskey.

"He agreed to help. Said he'll be calling in a few days with news," Sam said.

"Yeah, fourteen thousand dollars later," Dean muttered, though not loud enough for Bobby to hear.

"You boys look beat. How 'bout you go up and get some shut eye? I'll call you both down if I find anything."

"I take it you haven't had much luck?" Sam asked, leaning a shoulder against a wall.

"Not yet I haven't." But Bobby looked determined and then nodded to Sam and Dean. "Go and sleep. I've got this."

"You sure you don't need help?" Dean asked and Bobby rolled his eyes.

"I've got Sheriff Mills on look out just in case. You boys go sleep."

The Winchesters left Bobby and headed for the staircase, trudging up into the second story of the house. Both were suddenly very aware of how little sleep they'd been running on. It had been days since their last good rest, and their arms and legs felt limp and heavy. They took separate rooms, rather glad for a small chance at privacy.

Sam fell asleep quickly, but it took Dean a great while longer. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, mulling things over. Eventually, the hunter drifted into an uneasy sleep and began to dream.

He was standing on the lake edge, watching Castiel sink beneath cold waters. Blackness erupted everywhere as the angel vanished. It was dark, so dark he couldn't see anything. Then he was back in Chicago, storm clouds building overhead, rain and wind whipping around him. A chill was in the air, and Dean looked to his left. Death was there, standing next to him and clutching his cane with skeletal fingers. He turned to Dean with an uncharacteristic smile on his face.

_"How about that storm, then? Rather snarky, you protozoa." _

Dean woke with a start, sitting up in bed, heart hammering. He looked around the room which was now darkening with the setting sun. The curtains were drawn tightly over the window, but a hair of orange light peered through. The hairs on Dean's arms and legs were standing on end, goose-pimples fleshing out all over his skin. Somebody had been there. Dean was sure of it.

The hunter swung his legs over the side of his bed and he trudged to the window, ripping back the curtains. He screwed up his eyes and blinked them a few times as the red sun flashed over the horizon. A hand went up to shield his face, and his gaze wandered down to the backyard.

There, standing in the green grass, her face young and round, full of life, was Jo Harvelle. Dean's heart almost stopped in his chest. He lowered his hand, and blinked, thinking that he must have imagined her. She couldn't be there. And when he looked back, she was gone. His eyes lingered on the spot where she had been, and a dull ache filled him, an ache he didn't like to feel or to remember. A guilt he didn't want to know.

"Hello, Dean."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Hello, Dean."

Dean whipped around, instinctively reaching for a gun that wasn't on him. His hand paused at his pant pocket, the whole of him freezing at once, his mouth gently parted as he stared with wide eyes at the speaker.

Jo Harvelle looked warm, her lips pink and her cheeks flushed with blood. Her blond hair was sleek, cascading over softly slumping shoulder, her arms and hands resting at her sides. Jo's eyes didn't quite meet his. They stared at someplace just above the floor, as if reluctant to return his shocked gaze. Then slowly, they crept upward to tentatively study his face, as if she were reading him for the first time. Jo straightened herself a little but held herself back from him, her body turned sideways. She spoke again, though in far less lighthearted tone, and more from her chest, than Dean remembered.

"I know this cannot be easy for you, Dean," she said. Her voice held the same uncertainty as her stance, although it was not unempathetic. But this was not at all how Dean would have expected her to react after all of this time. She might have at least smiled. Perhaps death and quieted her, refined the life in her to something more reserved. But no. That wasn't it. That wasn't right.

"J-Jo?" He breathed, taking a step sideways to look at her from another angel. Her head slowly turned as he did, watching him steadily.

Then Dean's hand disappeared into a pocket on his jacket and pulled out a flask of Holy water. Swiftly, he unscrewed the cap and thrust the bottle at the woman standing a few feet away from him. Water hit her face but did not burn her skin. The eldest Winchester backed up, reaching for a small pouch of salt he kept tucked in his back pocket.

"That is not necessary," Jo said, stepping forward for the first time.

"I don't know what you are," Dean said, his voice low and full of mounting anger and agony, "But you're not Jo." He flung all the salt he had at her, but she not cringe or disappear. His eyes darted to the gun on his bedside table, though he was sure it wouldn't be of any help. "You're doin' a real piss-poor job of her, " Dean spat, wishing it were somebody else's eyes looking into his.

"You are right, Dean. I am not Jo Harvelle. Perhaps I should have explained that sooner," she said, "Please forgive me." Her eyes left Dean's face for a moment. "No, I am Castiel. I did not mean to surprise you. I know this must be difficult. But this is merely temporary. I do not intend to possess her long." She was speaking quickly, as if to explain everything all at once. Desperation filled her eyes and tugged at the sides of her mouth, as if pleading with him to believe her, to give her a chance.

Dean was reeling, a loud ringing in his ears, and the room seemed to spin. His brow was furrowed as he tried to make sense of what had just happened, his lips parted as if he intended to say something, a name perhaps, or a question, but no words came to him. Just then the bedroom door banged open to reveal his younger brother.

"What's going on?" Sam said and then his eyes fell to what he immediately assumed was either Jo or an imposter. There was a silence, and then Dean said,

"I need a drink."

Dean was sitting in a chair, his head between his knees, a glass of whiskey tightly gripped in one hand. Bobby sat behind his desk, looking rather like a judge presiding over a case. Sam stood in the doorway with folded arms, but visibly much more woven together than his brother. Castiel was positioned in the middle of them, answering all questions as they came at him.

"So you're wearing Jo?" Dean said for the second time, unable to wrap his mind around Cas being _in_ Jo, "Run me through why that is, again."

"God," Cas said with Jo's voice, "He brought us back."

" 'Us'?" Bobby said, though not in an unfriendly tone of voice. Though he could be a skeptical man, something had come over Bobby when he saw Jo Harvelle materialize in front of him. He had been shocked, like the boys, and had given her some hell to make sure she wasn't an imposter, but he couldn't snuff out the relief that had come over him.

"The angels," Cas said.

"You mean the archangels." Sam said knowingly, and Cas nodded.

"And others. But yes, the archangels."

"This has something to do with God dying, don't it?" Bobby asked is a resigned kind of way.

"Yes," Cas said softly, his gaze turned to Bobby now, "He has resurrected the angels to watch over mankind after his death."

"Watch over?" Sam smirked a little, "Kind of a bad crowd to play baby sitter."

"Gabriel is charged with keeping them in line," Cas said, "And has been promoted in rank for his loyalty to mankind before being slain by Lucifer. He now has Michael's position."

This shocked the rest of the room. Sam and Dean exchanged quick glances and Bobby let out a small groan.

"Does Michael know?" Bobby asked, uneasy with the news.

"Michael was freed from Lucifer's cage. He is aware, though as you can imagine, he is not happy."

"I wouldn't think so," Bobby said with a humorless laugh, "Michael is as hard-assed as you get."

"Why the big deal over man?" Dean asked, putting the glass to his lips and taking a swig. "I thought God couldn't give a crap about us."

"God does care, Dean. We were wrong to think he didn't," Jo's head had whipped around to stare at him, and Dean couldn't yet bring himself to argue back; He couldn't quite accept that Jo was facing him. It felt too surreal, and so Dean looked away, staring back into the drink in hand, "Once God is dead, there will be nothing to protect you from the Leviathans and whatever else might be out there. "

"So we could use all the help we can get," Bobby concluded, sitting back in his chair with a grimace on his face. "Can't say I'm thrilled with the idea."

"What about me?" Sam suddenly piped up, coming closer to Jo, massaging his one hand gruffly. Dean and Bobby looked over to Sam whose eyes bored into Jo's. "Cas, I mean, can you fix me? Can you fix Death's wall?" Sam let a little fear into his face, a fear that he kept down, down so he could carry on with his life. But now he was letting it up. He looked down at the scar on his left hand, squeezing it under his thumb.

"Yeah, can you put the dam back up?" Dean added. Jo's face was suddenly hard.

"I know this is important, Sam, but until I regain Jimmy, I cannot fix the wall. I would risk losing this vessel," Cas stepped a little closer, "But I promise you, I will fix it. I may be able to ask one of my brothers to do it, although getting in touch with them while God dies will not be easy."

Sam still rubbed the scar, pursing his lips slightly, but he nodded and lifted his head, "Thanks, Cas." Cas nodded in return, Jo's eyes still full of remorse. Sam moved a little away, a disappointed bubble filling his stomach. _It wouldn't be for much longer._ _Lucifer would be gone soon._ But Sam knew better than to get his hopes up.

"Why Jo?" Dean asked, staring at Jo's form, trying to see her as Cas.

"Yeah," Sam nodded in agreement, trying to forget his disappointment, "I thought it only worked in family lines."

"As I said," Cas looked to Dean, "This is only temporary. She can suffice for a time, but I will need to find Jimmy. Until then, she agreed to help, and God resurrected us."

"Why couldn't God find you Jimmy?" Dean pressed on.

"Because the Leviathans destroyed him. The only way to get him back is to confront the Leviathans directly, and God is no longer powerful enough to do that."

"How long does he have?" Sam asked and there was a silence following his question. Everyone's eyes slowly drifted to Cas who stood awkwardly in the middle.

"I…I am not certain. Not long. And when it happens we will be informed."

"And then what?" Dean said.

"Then…we wait… and see what happens. There is no telling what might come of His death."

Just then a phone in the kitchen began to ring, an unwelcome, intrusive sound, as if unwanted ears were tuning into the conversation. Everyone looked up, slightly startled and roused, though not free, from the heaviness permeating the room.

"Want me to get it?" Sam offered, being the closest to the kitchen, but Bobby shook his head, already getting up.

"No. I've got it." Bobby left the room.

Dean slumped back in his chair, tilting his head toward the ceiling and ran a hand down his face.

"So, what now Cas?" Sam asked, sitting down beside his brother.

"We hunt for the Leviathans," he said, sitting down on the empty sofa by the window. It almost felt like old times, when it was Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Cas against Lucifer and all the dick angels pushing for the end of the world. But almost was the operative word. Things had changed since then.

Dean stood up and looked at Jo and Castiel sitting on the sofa. Jo looked so stiff sitting there, her back straight as she sat at the edge of the sofa, hands in her lap, not at all how the actual Jo would take to a comfortable seat. But this wasn't Jo, it was Cas, and Cas was always slightly awkward and maybe a little too tense from head to foot. Happiness swelled inside of Dean as he watched Jo and Cas sitting there. A happiness he hadn't known he could still feel. Then he crossed the room, pulled Jo to her feet, and embraced his two friends. He had lost so many people along the way. They all had. Castiel was surprised, expecting something angrier from the hunter, something much more deserving for his actions in the past. But the angel returned the embrace, though a little uncertain at first. Dean held Jo's thin body, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Though I swear to god," Dean pushed the angel away, "If you hurt Jo, I _will_ kill you."

Castiel regarded Dean for a moment, and the two stared at one another.

"You have my word that nothing will happen to her," Castiel said softly.

Dean gave a short nod.

"You better make sure." Dean turned his back on Cas for a moment, blinking back the sudden wetness filling his eyes. He looked over at his brother and smiled. Sam smiled back, understanding in his expression. However strange this was for him, it must be a thousand times stranger for Dean.

"Dean," Castiel said, "I said before that I would redeem myself to you. I still intend to do that."

"Just make sure Jo is okay, and we'll call it even." Dean responded, his voice a little weak. He looked over to Cas as Sam moved toward the two of them.

"Dean-"

"Look, Cas," Dean fixed his friend with a steely look, his face firm, "You don't have to do anything. God knows we've all messed up once or twice. Pretty big screw ups, too. We're just glad to have you back." He couldn't be angry. Not now. He couldn't be angry at the dead. At Jo who was staring at him through Cas's regret and determination. Jo, to whom he owed so much.

"Yeah, Cas. It's good to have you back. And Jo," Sam said, lightly touching Jo's shoulder. Just then a throat cleared from the kitchen doorway.

"That was Sheriff Mills," Bobby said as he came back into the room, polishing a gun in his hand. The boys and the angel started a little as Bobby cut in, turning to face the aging man as he set the gun down on his desk, "She's comin' round. Somethin's up in town."

"Did she say what?" Sam asked, but Bobby shook his head.

"Just that somethin's up. She didn't seem keen on talkin' over the phone."

"That's great," Dean said bitterly, "How will Frank reach us if the phones are out of the picture?"

"He'll figure it out," Bobby said with a bit of a tone, as if he didn't think the phone lines were the most concerning thing floating out there, "Besides, we got Cas."

"Oh, he's sure to love that," Dean said, musing a little over the image of paranoid Frank reacting to an angel popping up in his living room. Sam chuckled a bit.

"I can check the town now, before she arrives," Cas offered, and before anyone could reply, there was a soft breeze, a ruffling of beating wings, and the angel was gone. A few papers lifted up and drifted off of Bobby's desk, scattering across the floor. Sam and Bobby bent to pick them up while Dean fixed himself another glass of whiskey.

"Sure seems eager to get movin'," Bobby observed, putting his papers back in place, "Cas I mean."

"Yeah, well," Dean muttered, sipping his whiskey.

"He probably wants to prove himself," Sam said and he put his papers on top of Bobby's.

"I told him he doesn't have to," Dean said with a sigh, shaking his head a bit.

"Oh, let him be," Bobby said, "We could use all the eyes we can get."

They didn't have to wait long for Castiel's return. The mini wind storm kicked up once more, disturbing the piles of paper Sam and Bobby had just cleaned up, and Jo was standing in the room once more. Her hair rippled back off of her neck, and her arms hung stiffly at her sides.

"Why do I even bother?" Bobby muttered as he stooped to begin cleaning up again, Sam moving to help out as well.

"It's Crowley," Cas said, Jo's eyes dark and sunken in their sockets. Her face was pinched around the nose and mouth, as if a particularly bad taste filled it. Understandable, considering Castiel's last job with Crowley. Clearly the mention of the King of Hell brought back a few memories.

"Crowley?" Sam exclaimed, "Why? Why's he even here?"

"He asks that you summon him. He didn't say anything else."

"You mean in here?" Dean echoed Sam's surprise and looked around the room, to the devil's traps up above and down below. "Why here? Why not someplace less…demon proof?"

"Meeting on our turf?" Bobby said, raising his eye brows, "Sounds like he's tryin' to make a peace treaty, or somethin' of the sorts."

"That's wonderful," Dean snorted as he frowned and rested his hands on his hips, inspecting the room to make sure the traps really were fool proof.

"Think it's worth it?" Sam asked looking from Dean to Bobby to Cas. Jo's eyes darted to the three men in turn.

"That is up to you," Cas said.

"Was he alone?" Sam asked Castiel.

"No. He sent a lesser demon in his stead with the message."

"You sure he's even here then?" Bobby asked, rolling up his flannelled sleeves to his elbows. Jo's eyes darted to the three men surrounding her, and she gave single a solemn nod.

"I am certain."

"Well then, let's get to it," Bobby said, "You boys get the stuff ready."

"You sure about this, Bobby?" Dean asked before moving. Bobby gave him a look.

"Yeah, so long as the trap holds, might as well see what he wants." Bobby turned to his desk and picked up the leather bound book that kept the summoning ritual.

"I will see if there is anything else in town." Jo announced unexpectedly and vanished with a swirl of papers.

"What was that about?" Dean asked with a crease between his eyebrows, looking at Sam.

"Probably doesn't want to get involved with Crowley again. I mean," Sam said as he rooted around for the ritual components, "He did work with Crowley. I doubt he'd want that kind of reminder of everything that happened. At least not right away."

"I told him to drop it," Dean said as he helped his brother.

"Yeah, well, he messed up pretty big, Dean." Sam straightened up with a large silver bowl in his hands, "We might forgive him, but that doesn't mean he forgives himself. God knows I still feel bad about all the crap I did. You can't just tell him to forget it and expect him to do it all at once."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it, alright?" Dean scowled, "Let's just do this thing."

The boys hastened to gather the rest ritual components while Bobby leafed through the ritual book. They situated the summoning in the heart of a devil's trap. They'd performed the ritual many times before, and thus it didn't take long at all. Bobby began to read from the book, and the windows began to shake as if buffeted by a strong wind. The electric lights began to flicker and hiss as electricity surged and receded, and the papers that Cas had upset began to scitter and tumble across the room. But the brother's kept their eyes focused on the center of the circle until Bobby had finished the summoning. At the utterance of Bobby's last word, the room was plunged into darkness, the lights giving out for the briefest of moments. All was silent and still.

Then the buzz of light bulbs kicked back up, and the blackness lifted to reveal a dark haired, dark suited man standing in the center of the devil's trap, a cocky smirk on his face.

"Cheers," said Crowley.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

"Crowley," Dean said in a gruff response. The King of Hell flashed the hunter a wide, charming grin, his hands casually tucked into his pant pockets.

"I appreciate you having me on such short notice," Crowley said humbly, inclining his head respectfully.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Bobby asked with an edge in his voice, the gun he'd been polishing back in his hand. Crowley eyed the gun wryly but did not comment.

"I suppose we'll cut to the chase, shall we?" Crowley raised his eyebrows and looked around to his crowd.

"What do you want?" Sam asked, his arms crossed against his broad chest.

"What do I want?" Crowley looked surprised, and then gave a short laugh, "Boys, I've come on a diplomatic mission. We are after the same thing after all."

"And just what would that be?" Bobby said, massaging the gun's trigger with his thumb. Crowley turned his full attention to Bobby, still wearing a faintly amused expression at the weapon in the old hunter's hands.

"Leviathans, of course."

"What do you know about the Leviathans?" Dean asked coldly.

"Not much," Crowley returned, "But you won't kill them with that." Crowley nodded pointedly to the gun in Bobby's hand. Bobby jumped a little and wrinkled his nose.

"I damn well know that!" Bobby spat, but he put the gun down on the table all the same. Crowley turned away from the old man, a slight swagger to his step, a look of pleasure and satisfaction on his face.

"Bloody hard to kill, Leviathans. Not that I've tried," Crowley raised his hands, "But I've heard along the grape vine that they are hard to catch and harder to put a bullet into."

"If they bleed, they can die," Dean said shortly, his teeth gritted in their gums. The grin was back on Crowley's face.

"But how do they die? That, boys, is the million dollar question. God made them before angels or demons, and they were bad enough to warrant a stay to Purgatory. I think it's safe to say the normal arsenal is out."

"Then what do you suggest we bring?" Bobby asked, gripping the desk tightly with one hand.

"That is what I am hoping to find out through your little visit to Springcreek. I want you to kill the whole damned lot of them," Crowley couldn't entirely hide the slight snarl that slid into his voice, but he pressed his fingers tips together and paused before addressing the Winchesters and Bobby again, "I am offering you protection in exchange for information on killing the Leviathans."

"Protection?" Sam said, stupefied, his questioning eyes going to his brother and Bobby.

"The finest Hell has to offer."

"We don't want your demons," Dean flatly responded. "We're done doing business."

"Hold up," Bobby said, turning to Dean, "Let's hear what he has to say before we go shootin' down help. He's right," Bobby turned an eye, a disgusted frown on his face, to Crowley, "We don't know how to kill these things."

"That's a smart lad," Crowley said approvingly, "Now, I am offering you guards when you enter Springcreek. Of course, they will be stationed throughout the town itself. Can't have you drawing too much attention to yourselves-"

"And why us?" Sam interjected, cutting the demon off before he could carry on, "Why not get one of your demons to figure that out?"

"Because," Crowley began, "You stopped the Apocalypse, after all. You've handled every monster to surface on this lovely little planet of yours. Who else would be more qualified for the job? You go in there and put an end to this, and _I_ will give you the resources you need. I mean, you would most likely be saving the world anyway, would you not?" Crowley shifted his stance, raising his eyebrows into his hairline as he looked specifically at the Winchester brothers. "So, how about a little extra protection for insurance, eh? Just to make sure you get the job done. Do we have an accord? You've got nothing to lose, after all."

"And why do you hate them so much?" Sam ignored the Demon's push to finalize a deal, "I'd have thought you'd team up first chance you had."

"Oh, I tried," Crowley said quickly, shuffling his feet and straightening his back, "But, I am afraid, we learned we weren't… keen on each other."

"They turned you down flat, didn't they?" Dean said with a hint of relish, a smirk on his face. Crowley couldn't hide his annoyance as he looked back at Dean.

"I went to them and offered my assistance. But they wanted to do things on their terms."

"So then you came to us," Dean laughed humorlessly, "You're a real piece of work."

"Do you want my help or not?" Crowley snapped, his voice rising. The lights flickered as the demon's anger bristled, the hissing and spitting of electrical sockets rising and falling with Crowley's rage. Then his anger cooled and a brief silence fell before the King of Hell started again, his voice back to the same cunning yet nonchalant tone. "Shall we align ourselves? At least while these monsters are on the loose? Then we can go back to killing one another in a civilized way once all is said and done?" Crowley extended his hand to Dean.

"No," Dean bit back, "We don't need your protection. We can do just fine on our own, thanks."

"Dean!" Sam said, alarmed.

"You sure 'bout this boy?" Bobby asked.

"We're not taking help from Crowley. Not this time. I don't know what you're angle is," Dean said to Crowley who watched the Winchester boy with open distaste now, "And god help me, I know there's an angle. But don't think I buy that 'you saved the world' crap. We're not interested."

"Fine!" Crowley snapped, "Suit yourself. But-"

"Dean, a second," Sam interjected suddenly, cutting off Crowley. The youngest hunter gripped his brother's shoulder, gave it a small squeeze, and led him from the room to the kitchen without pause or a moment for Dean to protest.

"Are you sure about what you're doing?" Sam immediately began once they were out of earshot. "Don't you think you're letting your vendetta against Crowley get in the way of what's important?"

"Vendetta?" Dean sputtered, "Damn right I have a vendetta against Crowley, and I'll be damned if I let that son of a bitch-"

"See, this is what I'm talking about!" Sam cut across Dean, his voice exasperated, "We don't know what's out there, Dean! You can't go turning down help because of what happened with Cas. Cas was way more at fault than Crowley, and we're fine letting Cas back in!"

"Cas is Cas! Crowley's a demon, Sam! That's the difference!"

"And that's never been a problem before, Dean. Look," Sam relaxed his voice a bit, pleading a little with his older brother, gripping Dean's shoulders with both of his hands, "All I'm saying is don't let your personal problems get in the way of doing the job. We could use the help, even if it is Crowley. At least until we find out more about the Leviathans."

Dean gave pause after this statement, caught in its truth.

"We've done work with Crowley before," Sam reminded his brother, seizing Dean's silence to press on, "We'll keep our eyes on Crowley, but, please Dean, don't do something you'll kick yourself in the ass for later."

"You sound more and more like Dad," Dean said softly, frowning slightly at the edges of a puckered mouth, considering Sam and his father, struck by Sam's need to start a 'job.' Maybe their father wouldn't have worked with Crowley, maybe he would have, but Sam had a similar passion to save people and take on a job as John had. Dean felt a small ache twinge inside his gut at the memory of his father, but he tossed the feeling to the side.

Sam smiled feebly, a bit of relief on his face. Dean walked around Sam, heading back into the room with Bobby and Crowley. Crowley's attention fell to the eldest Winchester as he entered.

"So, have we reached a decision, then?" Crowley asked Dean, his arms tucked behind his straight back.

"We'll do it," Dean said at length, but he still didn't look at peace with the choice, his eye sockets dark, his facial muscles taught from going against his instincts, but he was calmer than before. Sam stood by his brother's shoulder, as if to lend some comfort.

"Excellent! Good choice!" Crowley clapped his hands together before extending one to Dean to shake. "Now-"

"But you listen here, Crowley," Dean's voice held back none of the dislike and mistrust he felt toward the dark haired man, "One mess up on your part and I'm coming for you before any Leviathan. You got that?"

"You've made yourself very clear." Crowley twiddled his fingers impatiently, waiting for Dean to take the hand. Dean eyed the demon's hand with contempt, pausing before touching it, and then shook it.

"Now, I expect you in Springcreek tomorrow."

"Wait, give us some time gather our own resources. Rest a little," Bobby said.

"Fine. But I'd like to get this over with. Be prompt. No more than a day," Crowley widened his eyes, "We'll be waiting. Now, would you mind letting me out?" Crowley's eyes flickered down to the trap circling his feet. Dean glanced at it too, and had to fight the urge to kill Crowley anyway. But Dean scraped the paint off of the floor with the toe of his shoe and stepped back. Crowley lightly walked from the circle, smiled at the three men, and then vanished.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, sitting down.

"I want to give Frank a call before we go," Bobby said, running a hand through his beard, "You're right in thinking Crowley has another motive. I'll see if Frank has picked up on anything."

"Good idea," Sam gave a nod and collapsed into a chair, rubbing his temples.

"You alright, Sammy?" Dean asked his brother.

"Yeah, just beat," Sam said, stretching his shoulders and leaning against the back of the chair.

"You should rest," Bobby said, leaving out the subject of Sam's broken wall. Sam looked up at his brother and the old hunter, pursed his lips, swallowed, and nodded.

"Yeah, you're right. You guys should sleep, too." Sam briskly took to his feet, rolling his head around on its neck to loosen it up from the stress it felt.

"I will. Once I'm done with Frank," Bobby assured Sam. Sam then looked at Dean who nodded his response.

"Night, then," Sam said, walking off to the upper floor of Bobby's house.

"Night," Dean said after Sam. Dean watched his brother leave and then sighed very heavily. "I don't like this, Bobby."

"That makes two of us," Bobby said, sitting down at his desk and pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

"Working with Crowley. I mean, come on! Didn't we just get on Cas for that? You know Crowley's full of bullshit."

"We could use the help," Bobby said shortly, taking a sip, "But I agree. He is after something. Just have to be on our toes. We've handled Crowley before."

"And where's Cas anyway? You'd think he'd be back as soon as Crowley left," Dean muttered, glaring at his feet, "And what's this about Cas not being able to fix Sam?"

"Sam's held on this long. He's tough. He'll see it through."

"But-"

"Drop it, Dean." Bobby said firmly, setting down his glass of whiskey and reaching out to take Dean's cup. Dean passed it to the hunter who refilled it full of amber liquid, "Cas would do it if he could. But he can't right now. And it's best he fix Sam when it's safe to. We don't need Cas trying to fix something and make it worse because he's not juiced up enough."

Dean's jaw tightened, but he did not argue back, taking his whiskey from Bobby.

"Yeah, you're right." Dean quietly said, raising the glass to his lips, but he did not drink.

Bobby pushed out his chair and stood up, coming around to the other side of his desk.

"I'll call Frank. And Sheriff Mills should be around soon. Maybe we could get her in on this. Could use an extra set of eyes. But you, boy," Bobby said, pointing at Dean with a finger, "Have had a long day. Go, sleep. I'll take care of everything."

Dean relaxed, feeling reassured and comforted, glad that Bobby was there to relieve him of the anxiety.

"Thanks, Bobby. You make sure to get some sleep, too."

"Will do."

Dean left the room and followed up the stairs after Sam. The wooden floors creaked beneath Dean's shoes as he walked down the darkened hallway. He paused outside of Sam's room, listening intently to make sure his brother was alright. When he was sure all was well with Sam, he walked to door opposite Sam's and then entered.

The white linen sheets of the twin bed were still disturbed from last time Dean had slept there. Nobody seemed too bothered with cleaning up, and Dean wasn't entirely used to it after so many hotels and temporary bedrooms. Nothing ever felt permanent enough to warrant a cleanup, although Bobby's house, other than Baby, was the closest thing to a home as Dean could find.

The bedroom window was open, a gentle breeze lifting and nudging the curtains skyward. And by the window, her golden hair gently rippling in the cool, night breeze, was Jo Harvelle. She was looking down into the yard below, her facial features tight, as though she were deep in thought and some sort of internal turmoil. Dean had to remind himself that it was Cas standing there and that Jo was somewhere inside of Castiel.

"Hello, Dean," Jo said in Cas's monotone, her eyes still watching the yard.

"Cas," Dean said in greeting, "What's up? Where were you?"

Jo slowly shuffled around to face Dean, her eyes still downcast as Cas roused himself from his thoughts.

"I was out making sure the town was secure."

"Secure?" Dean asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

"From demons. They are present, but benign for time being," Castiel explained, but brushed Dean's confusion off, obviously not seeking to go into further details, though the presence of demons in Bobby's home town hardly surprised Dean. With Crowley around and a promised protective entourage there were sure to be a few demons in the area, "And Sheriff Mills will be here soon."

"Yeah, Bobby said she was coming."

"Did you agree to Crowley's offer?" The angel asked, somehow already guessing that the King wanted to make a deal, "I assume he had some business with you."

"Yes," Dean replied shortly, "He was, ah, looking to offer protection against the Leviathans."

"And in return?"

"We'd promise to hunt and ice the suckers. Though we'd have done that anyway."

"I see."

Silence lapsed between the angel and the boy, though Dean still had a pressing question on his mind, a nagging thing that wouldn't leave him, that left him suspicious of the angel.

"Hey, Cas," Dean finally pitched as the angel fixed his focus on the yard below, watching the swaying leaves in the trees with unblinking attention, "Why didn't you find us right away? After being recreated?"

"I was prevented from coming back to earth. Until it was decided what my new duty would be. God…wasn't pleased with me. I came close to losing my grace. God resurrected me, time and time again, and I tried to usurp his power without knowing the full extent of his plight. I was in disgrace."

"So why didn't God smite you then?" Dean asked, scowling a little.

"Because," Cas said slowly, turning to face the hunter. Jo's face was contemplative, her eyebrows knitted closely together from a deep crease in her forehead, the edges of her mouth tipping downward gently, her arms folded across her chest, one hand resting against her the muscle in her upper arm, "He showed me mercy. Mercy that I was not deserving of. My duty is to protect you and Sam, and if I do that well, then all will be forgiven. But I think," Cas gestures to Jo's body, "I believe this is a test. God may not be strong enough to retrieve my vessel, but I believe it is more likely that gaining my true powers will be a test. Of myself and my faith."

Dean took in a sharp intake of breath, drawing in air through his nose, nodding and blinking.

"Makes sense. Any ideas on how we do that exactly? Finding and resurrecting Jimmy?"

Cas's face grew solemn and he looked at his hand, flexing Jo's fingers.

"I do not."

"Well, we'll figure something out." Dean's voice was low, and he found it hard to look at Cas, or Jo, it was hard for him to think of them sharing the same body. What if something happened to both of them at once? But a night's sleep would ease some of his new worry, as would another few glasses of Bobby's whiskey. Yet another thing he had to worry over.

"I should leave you," Cas said suddenly, straightening up, "It's been a long day and I imagine you need your sleep."

Dean was silent for a second, and then seemed to rouse from someplace deep in his mind, responding to the angel.

"Yeah, that would be great, thanks."

Cas nodded and was gone before Dean could say anything else. The hunter's eye feebly drifted upward, falling to the place where the angel had just been, wishing suddenly that he had said more. Done something more. But Cas was gone now, and there would be time in the morning for talk.

Dean crossed the room and fell face first onto the bed, burying his face in a pillow, breathing in the smell of Bobby's house. Sleep fell like a hammer, and soon the bedroom was full of Dean's snores.

For the first time in an age, Dean could not remember his dreams when he woke the next day.


End file.
